


Cross Our Hearts (2018)

by SeventhStrife



Series: ❤ [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Prototype (Video Games)
Genre: Actual Angel Desmond Miles, Acutal Little Shit Desmond Miles, Alex Mercer Being an Asshole, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bleeding Effect, Blood Magic, Blood and Injury, Clay Kaczmarek Lives, Confessions, Cutting, Desmond Miles Lives, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Do not post to another site, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't copy to another site, Drabble Collection, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Feeding Kink, First Meetings, Forced Orgasm, Getting Together, Hand Feeding, Hurt Desmond Miles, Implied/Referenced Torture, Isu Technology (Assassin's Creed), Jealousy, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Blood, Mind Control, Nightmares, Obsessive Behavior, Platonic Cuddling, Rating May Change, Rough Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Sacrifice, Slow Dancing, Touch-Starved, Werewolves, also, tags added with each chapter, updates weekly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 38,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27051088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeventhStrife/pseuds/SeventhStrife
Summary: Fills for the 2018 Cross Our Hearts prompt event. ProtoCreed hours are 24/7.
Relationships: Alex Mercer/Desmond Miles
Series: ❤ [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000596
Comments: 280
Kudos: 201
Collections: Cross Our Hearts





	1. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to save the long-winded explanation for the end-note, lol. I know I literally don't have to explain myself, but also I must.
> 
> This prompt was so easy to write for, it ended up being hard again because I had to pick just ONE (1) aspect of it to write about. Naturally, I chose the angsty option. Also, I like referring to Alex's tentacles as arms (similar to octopuses), and you'll be seeing a lot of that in future fics.

**Universe: Canon-Verse/Fusion  
Status: Pre-Relationship  
Rating: General  
Day 1: Touch  
POV: Alex**

* * *

It's an over-reaction. Alex knows it the second he makes contact, from the stinging on the back of his wrist to Desmond's wide eyes.

He knows it, but it doesn't quell the instinct to flee and he's up and a few feet away in the blink of an eye.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Alex spits, incongruously furious.

Desmond's frozen, staring, arm still half-raised from where Alex had smacked it away. His mouth works a few times before he finds the words.

"I...sorry," he settles on. His hand slowly falls back to his lap. He looks lost. "I didn't—I wasn't going to hurt you."

Alex _knows_ that. He knows that. But. 

"I'm not _scared_ of you, you fucking idiot." Desmond actually looks hurt by the insult, and while his intention had been to push Desmond away, to wipe away that disgusting, concerned expression, he doesn't feel any better now that it's gone. 

"O-kaaaay," Desmond says slowly, "Then what's the problem?"

Alex bares his teeth. _"You._ Why the fuck are you trying to _touch_ me? Do you have a death wish?"

Desmond frowned. "What? Why would—I really doubt touching you is going to _kill me,_ Alex."

"You don't _know_ that!"

Desmond has this infuriating look on his face, like _Alex_ is the one being unreasonable.

"Well, you haven't killed me yet."

He's not _getting it,_ and Alex finds that fact unbelievably infuriating. _"Yet,"_ Alex stresses.

In the next second, he lets the virus rise to the surface. His arms tear and multiply, elongating into thick and viscous feelers, twisting around each other as they brush the floor. More spring from his back, writhing in the open air, flicking out in search of food. 

Alex has seen a mirror. He's seen his reflection mirrored in glass skyscrapers, in pools of blood and through the memories of others. He knows he looks like something worse than a nightmare. Something beyond humanity, beyond sanity. He's grotesque.

Desmond looks impassive, but Alex knows better. No poker face can hide the fear the very sight of him causes in anyone with a brain, able to recognize a predator in their midst.

"You're food," Alex says lowly. His voice comes out raw, scraped over coals. "And I'm _always_ hungry. You're never safe around me. Pretending anything else is just going to get you killed faster."

Desmond blinks. He says, "Wow. You're really dramatic."

Alex reaches new heights of anger. Desmond's _dismissing_ his warning, as if that's something he can afford to do.

 _"I'll tear your fucking heart out—"_ he starts to threaten, but his mouth snaps shut immediately the moment Desmond stands.

Without breaking eye contact, Desmond walks forward, expression determined, but not scared.

_He's not scared. Why isn't he scared?_

Survival instincts kick in once more and Alex backs up. Desmond doesn't falter, and soon enough the closest wall of Desmond's shitty apartment presses against his back. Desmond stops, just inches away, and he's neatly trapped. He can't move without touching Desmond in some way and the thought terrifies him in a way he hasn't felt since—ever. He's never been this scared of anything in his life.

Desmond doesn't speak for a long moment, merely tracing his eyes over Alex's face, his set jaw, the arms spilling over his shoulders and trailing down where his human limbs should be.

He reaches out and Alex stops _breathing._ His fingers are light, tentative when they brush his writhing arm, caressing the slickness with a gentle curiosity. He meets Alex's gaze, fingertips still trailing down, and says, "I have nothing to be afraid of."

Alex shudders, eyes shut tight. He snaps the virus back inside himself, trying to gain control, but he's still shaking. He can't stop.

The touch leaves his arm and his eyes open in response, searching for Desmond's, trying to _understand._

Desmond meets his hopelessly lost expression with a small, warm smile, touched with something that makes his chest ache. He cups Alex's cheek, strokes the skin there with his thumb in slow passes. 

Desmond keeps devastating him with these small acts of kindness, scooping him right out of his skin and exposing him and destroying any bit of strength he has. He's going insane.

"Alex," he sighs, like he knows even a fraction of the pain he's causing. 

Alex reaches up, presses Desmond's palm closer to his skin. He wants to sink into Desmond in a way he's never done to another human. Desmond _must_ know that. So why doesn't it terrify him? It terrifies Alex.

Alex shakes his head. He can't bear to look into Desmond's eyes for a second longer. 

"You see something in me that isn't there," he says roughly. It costs him something dear to say it.

"I see exactly what's in front of me."

Alex tightens his grip on Desmond's hand, stopping just shy of pain. "I'm going to _hurt_ you."

"You won't."

Alex flinches. That calm certainty, that faith—being shot has felt kinder.

In a last, desperate attempt to get Desmond to see reason, Alex says, "This isn't going to end the way you want. I kill everything around me, Desmond. Everything."

Desmond shrugs. He steps closer, until only a breath separates them, and then that's gone. His arms wrap around Alex without an ounce of hesitation. He tucks his head into the crook of Alex's neck. 

Against his skin, he says, "I've always had to learn things the hard way."

Alex's resistance crumbles. He clutches Desmond back desperately, probably too tight. Desmond doesn't complain, only rubs his back in steady, calm strokes.

The touch, the closeness—intoxicating comes close to describing it. Alex sinks to the ground, dragging Desmond with him. He rests his back against the wall, cages Desmond in his lap, and just drinks in the warm feeling of a body pressed close, of the gentle touch of someone who has no intention of hurting him.

It still hurts, in a way. But it's a pain that's already grown addicting. He revels in it. He hopes Desmond doesn't have anywhere to be for the next few hours. Days. Months. He's planning on getting his fill.

Alex wants to thank him. Wants to call him an idiot again. Who sees something as awful as Alex and wants to get _closer?_ Desmond's seen him in action, has seen him tear people apart without even an ounce of effort, seen the warm spray of blood and viscera as he's killed without remorse. 

Yet still he sees Alex as someone worthy of companionship. Affection. _Care._ Even Dana hadn't dared reach out, and he wore the body of the only person she'd ever truly trusted.

 _Whatever you see, it's not there,_ Alex knows. _It's not there._

"It's okay," Desmond murmurs, because Alex's shaking has gotten worse. Here Desmond is, trapped in the vice-grip of a monster, and all he can think about is comforting it. "It's okay, Alex. I'm not going anywhere."

Alex hasn't shed a single tear since he woke up in the morgue, but here and now, it's a near thing. He squeezes Desmond that much tighter. 

He desperately tries to believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. I stumbled upon the Cross Our Hearts Archive page some time ago and started writing random prompts over the course of many, many months, kind of as a writing exercise. Something mindless and fun to do with an old, favorite pairing. I'd copied down all of 2018's prompts and had NO IDEA that the prompt event was on-going until this, the year in our lord 2020. OTL
> 
> I was SO ASHAMED of my negligence that I decided not to post anything until the event was over in September because I am a LATE FRAUD. My plan is to write for ALL the prompts and I've already started outlining the 2020 ones. I haven't finished the 2018 ones yet, but I already have over 30K words written and I've been wanting to post for SO LONG and today was the day my resolve to wait and write them all out before posting broke, lol. I figured, I'll start posting now, and any comments I get will probably give me the nudge I need to wrap up the rest. 
> 
> Most, if not all of these will be able to be read alone, although I'll indicate otherwise if any take place in the same 'verse. In the interest of keeping the process of writing these easy and fun, my interpretation of the prompts range from the literal to the metaphorical-whichever appealed to me at the time of writing. I know that ProtoCreed doesn't have to be the focus, but it's literally the only thing I care about??? I refuse to change my mind.
> 
> I'll update once a week, but if anything changes, I'll let you guys know. Hope you enjoy! (and please comment! (￣▽￣)ノ)


	2. Eat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so flattered by the wonderful comments I got for the first prompt that AS SOON as I got home from work, I went straight to my computer to finish the final edits on Day 2. Thank you guys so much for your kind encouragement, it's such a boost! It also reminded me why I love writing these two, haha.

**Universe: Canon-Verse/Fusion**   
**Status: Pre-Relationship**   
**Rating: Teen & Up**   
**Day 2: Eat**   
**POV: Desmond**

* * *

Desmond had an entire five seconds of peace from the moment he sat on his couch to when there was a knock at his door.

He absolutely did not whine in utter defeat as he flopped down to sprawl carelessly across the non-demanding, welcoming, _blissfully_ silent couch. He knew he was acting like a petulant child. He didn't care.

He was beyond exhausted, going on _three days_ without sleep, and it was too late for him to try to get back up. He'd already sat down and, too bad for his visitor, his body wasn't going to let him move until he'd slept for the next twelve hours— _at least._

That loud, harsh knock—nearly rattling the door from the frame—had the side benefit of betraying his guest's identity, however, so he simply raised his voice.

"Just come in!"

Desmond's eyes fluttered shut as he let himself relax. Already, his breaths were beginning to deepen.

There was nothing but silence for a moment, then the twin sounds of both his lock and deadbolt moving. With a faint click, the door swung open.

He heard it shut a moment later but there were no footfalls, no voice or cough to announce their arrival, only stillness. Had it been anyone else, it would have been unnerving, but Desmond knew better. He waited.

A scant few inches from his ear, warm breath ghosted across his skin.

"You look like shit."

Desmond's lips quirked up into a smile. "You say the sweetest things."

"Where were you?"

Desmond smothered a sigh. Already with the inquisition...

"Istanbul."

"Injuries?"

"Nah, couple scrapes, that's all."

"Hm," Alex didn't sound like he believed him, but he let it go for now. Desmond had no doubt that a full-body check-up was in his future, whether he liked it or not.

A scent wafted through the air and he sniffed appreciatively. "Did you bring food?" Desmond asked hopefully, cracking his eyes open.

Not that it made a difference. He hadn't turned on any lights, determined to go straight to sleep, and Alex didn't need them to see at all. He blinked into the darkness, heard the faint crinkle of paper, sure to contain wonderful, fatty, decadently unhealthy fast food.

"Yeah." Alex shifted and the smell intensified as he dangled the bag near his face. "Got you the greasiest burger and fries I could find."

 _"Ugh,"_ Desmond sighed, enraptured. "I love you."

Alex didn't say anything, but the silence _screamed_ his embarrassment. Desmond chuckled, always delighting in opportunities to fluster Alex.

"Fuck off," Alex grumbled. "You want the food or not?"

"I do. Can you put it in the fridge?"

He sensed more than saw Alex sit on the floor beside him, could _very much_ feel those cool and calculating eyes on him. "You're not eating it? Even after I went through the effort of getting you this shit?"

"Dude. I didn't even have the energy to get to my _bed."_ With his luck, he'd probably fall asleep mid-chew, choke, and die as the world's most pitiful Assassin. "Feeding myself is out of the question."

Which was a shame, because his stomach was _killing_ him. But there was no arguing with the spent, wrung-out muscles of his arms and legs, pushed past their limits after crawling all over a desert city while fighting for his life. Was it too much to ask for a mission in the Bahamas?

Alex was quiet a moment, and then the crinkling of the take out bag met his ears. A second later, something warm was being pressed to his lips.

"Open," Alex ordered, and Desmond did.

Salty, hot and so, _so_ delicious. It was a conscious effort not to tear up at the taste and the only reason he refrained was because he didn't need to give Alex any more ammo for teasing him. He had enough already, even if it _had_ been that long since he'd had some hot, decent food.

Still, he couldn't resist asking, "One more—please?"

Alex acquiesed, but didn't stop at one. In a rare, magnanimous mood apparently, Alex silently and steadily continued to feed him fry after fry. Desmond couldn't see him in the darkness, but it wasn't long before he felt something creeping over him. Self-consciousness, maybe. 

They weren't speaking and the only sounds were Desmond's quiet chewing and Alex's hands dipping into the paper bag, fishing out food. Alex didn't say anything when his fingertips pressed against Desmond's lips and Desmond realized how... _intimate_ this was. He was over-worked and weak, nothing but one large bruise recuperating on a threadbare couch and Alex was just...sitting there, watching him in the dark. Feeding him.

Desmond's face grew warm. Why didn't he ever _think_ before getting himself into situations like this?

"What?" Alex asked, because _of course_ he noticed Desmond's expression, his blush. _Of course._

Desmond swallowed his last mouthful, looking down and away from where he knew Alex was.

"Nothing. Just...it's kinda weird, I guess. Making you feed me."

Another fry tapped his bottom lip and he opened his mouth automatically.

"You're not making me do anything," Alex said calmly. 

Desmond chewed, tried to think of some way to articulate this embarrassing feeling without sounding like a baby.

"I just mean—isn't this weird for you?" Desmond couldn't imagine Alex spent much time feeding people. Feeding _on_ them, sure. But nothing like this.

Alex's touch came again, but there was no food this time. His thumb traced over Desmond's bottom lip and Desmond sucked in a sharp breath. That thumb lightly rubbed the smooth skin of his lips, then dipped inside his mouth. Desmond froze, eyes wide, but he didn't fight the touch. He could taste the salt on Alex's skin when he pressed against the tip of his tongue.

"I like you like this," Alex said, and his voice—it was unlike anything Desmond had ever heard from him before. Intense. _Hungry._

His thumb dipped and pulled out, dragging Desmond's mouth open the slightest amount, a wet slide over his skin. Alex manipulating him like this, plying his body while he was defenseless—Desmond shivered. It was _doing things_ to him, and he was grateful his exhausted body was too tired to give away his interest.

"You're at my mercy. Vulnerable," Alex sounded oddly pleased in his quiet way. Satisfied. "I have no complaints."

Desmond's mouth worked as he tried to catch up to what was happening. It was no secret that Desmond found Alex attractive, but there was a difference between flirting with someone who he knew would never reciprocate and— _this._

"Al-Alex..." Words failed him. Mute surprise kept him from either encouraging or discouraging it and before he knew it, his window of opportunity to say 'stop' passed.

After a few more seconds of sputtering silence, Alex let his hand drift away, down to Desmond's waist where his palm slipped beneath his shirt and to his hip. It settled there like it belonged, entitled and covetous. He was very, very warm.

Alex asked, "Still hungry?"

Desmond swallowed. Any protests he had died a swift death. He answered truthfully. "Yeah."

Eating felt different after that. Where before it had been unremarkable, leaning towards embarrassing, now it felt supercharged. He certainly _felt_ that he was at Alex's mercy. The weight of his unwavering gaze was a tangible force, rivaling the burning touch of Alex's hand against his skin for sheer, overwhelming intensity. He ate every morsel Alex fed him, first the fries and then every torn bit of burger that he pressed to his lips, and he didn't even have the security of darkness to hide his flushed face and embarrassed, down-turned eyes. 

It was slow torture, being on the receiving end of that kind of attention, especially when Alex would occasionally dip a finger into Desmond's mouth, just because he could. A low thrum of arousal had settled over him, kept at a low bank, and Alex felt the same if the way he squeezed Desmond's hip every time he licked his finger was any indication.

_God, that's hot. Why is that hot?_

"All done," Alex said a small eternity later, the announcement punctuated by the sound of him crumpling up the bag. "My turn."

That was all the warning Desmond had before Alex's lips were on his. 

Alex kissed him as if he were laying claim to his property. He pressed firmly, _demanded_ reciprocation, and slipped in some tongue the moment Desmond managed to cobble together enough brain cells to move again. He was thorough, too, lazily exploring every crevice of Desmond's mouth with relentless, careful study. Alex shifted, rising and moving so that his hands were braced over the back of the couch and the arm. Things only became _slightly_ more discernible as Desmond's eyes grew adjusted to the darkness, enough to make out the hunch of Alex's shoulders and the cage of his arms. It just confirmed what he already knew and effortlessly reminded Desmond that he was prey in this moment; Alex could do whatever he wanted and he'd be helpless to stop him.

Desmond tried very, _very_ hard not to get turned on by that fact. He failed miserably. 

Alex moved again, shifted to straddle Desmond, heavy, enough to press him into the couch without crushing him. As if Desmond needed to be pinned—for all that he cared, he was perfectly content to stay right where he was—preferably until he died.

Desmond was the one who finally broke the kiss, if only because Alex seemed to have forgotten that he was human and very much needed to breathe. Even still, Alex made a low sound of protest and tried to chase his lips the second they parted.

"Wai—wait," Desmond touched Alex's side, arched his neck in an attempt to create some distance. "Can't breathe," he panted, "Just—gimme a second."

"Yeah," Alex agreed, stilling. His breath was warm against Desmond's lips. "Yeah. Right. Sorry."

Desmond quirked a smile. "You _definitely_ don't have to apologize," he said, wry. 

Alex pressed his forehead to Desmond's, trying to regulate his breathing enough to calm down. Desmond mirrored him, but the smile never left his face—although it was tinged with drowsiness.

The quiet was loud with words unsaid, confessions unmade.

"You want to talk about it?" Alex asked. Desmond considered.

"Yeah. But not now. I'm _way_ too tired for the relationship talk."

Desmond could _hear_ Alex's eyebrow rising. _"Relationship?_ Isn't that a bit presumptuous?"

Alex couldn't disguise the teasing in his tone and Desmond rolled his eyes, snorting. "Asshole."

"It's why you like me, isn't it?"

Desmond grinned. "Yeah. I guess it is." Desmond threw his arms around Alex's shoulders. "You know what else I like about you?"

"What?" Alex asked warily.

"How you're about to carry me to bed."

Alex huffed. "Right."

Despite his gruff attitude, Alex was the picture of gentleness when he lifted Desmond in his arms and carried him the short distance to his bedroom. The moment Desmond was placed onto the mattress, he sank into it with a grateful, reverent sigh. He'd done nothing but dream about this moment for the last three days.

Without invitation, Alex slipped in next to him. He wrapped possessive arms around Desmond and held him against his chest like he was committing to the long haul. 

"A cuddler, huh? Can't—" Desmond yawned, "—Can't say I'm surprised."

Alex squeezed him tighter for a moment in playful warning. "You complaining?"

Desmond smiled. He rolled into Alex's warmth and slipped his arms around his waist, buried his face against that over-heated chest, and closed his eyes.

"Definitely not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I don't even know how this happened. I see a prompt that is so clearly geared towards Alex and I do...this instead, lol. Does this count as feeding kink? I think it counts. 
> 
> ((I'm exhausted after working a 12 hour shift (my usual) and I can't stare at this for another second, so if there are any jarring mistakes, I will correct them—LATER.))
> 
> Stay tuned for more, soon! (~￣³￣)~


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god, don't even look at me. (BUT DO LOOK AT THE RATING.)

**Universe: Canon-Verse/Fusion  
Status: Pre-Relationship  
Rating: Explicit  
Day 3: Three  
POV: Alex**

* * *

Alex knows Desmond's always been more of a practical learner. Explanations, no matter how well articulated, will get him nowhere. He knows. He's tried. So he has to _show_ him.

He's rough. His hands seize Desmond around the thighs, forcing his legs apart, and he pushes into that space like it belongs to him. The virus seeps out in the form of a coiled tendril, striking out with the speed of a whip to twine around Desmond's wrists, forcing them together and slamming them against the wall over his head. 

They're in an empty warehouse, at the tail-end of a cut-and-dry intel run, and the boring mission is what had led to this situation in the first place: Desmond, asking too many questions, ignoring Alex's warnings, demanding more than anyone could reasonably expect Alex to give. 

There's no one around for miles, Alex knows, and the only way Desmond's leaving is if he gives in. Until then, he's completely at Alex's mercy.

Trapped.

Alex glares straight into Desmond's wide eyes, waiting for the fear to meet him. 

"Say it," he demands coolly. Desmond got what he wanted, got a taste of what Alex _really_ was. But the game has to stop before any real damage is done.

Desmond tests his bonds and is held fast. The realization makes him shiver, and for a moment, Alex thinks he's won. That he's proven his point and Desmond will finally, _finally_ stop this. All of this.

But Desmond looks up, licks his lips. Fucking _smiles._

"You'll have to do better than that," he says, voice low and sultry and shooting straight down to Alex's cock.

Alex stares, for a moment completely nonplussed. Alex is _literally_ restraining him with something Desmond's seen tear into large, muscled, fully grown men like wet paper. And he's asking for _more._

_He's...unbelievable._

It makes Alex angry all over again. Desmond wants the monster? Fine. He'll be just that. He'll be his worst fucking nightmare.

Tight-lipped, Alex breaks eye contact. He reaches up and grips the collar of Desmond's t-shirt. The strength it takes to rip it clean off his body is like tugging on a loose thread, and he tosses it over his shoulder carelessly. He reaches down and does the same to his jeans, turning them into useless tatters of fabric in the space of a second.

"Fuck," Desmond breathes. Alex can't say that he's unaffected either; Desmond's body is like a work of art, and the sight makes his pants feel tight.

But he doesn't sound scared. Not even nervous. 

It's not _enough._ Alex has to push harder.

Alex slides a hand up Desmond's neck, tangles his fingers in a fistful of short hair, and forces it into a sharp arc up. He kisses him, firm and harsh and smothering, mouths open, tongue vicious and ravaging. His other hand reaches between them, finds where Desmond is hard. He tugs Desmond's underwear down, far enough that it dips beneath his cock and balls, and lets the elastic stop there, pressing him up in a lewd display. 

He strokes the length of him once, twice, then takes him in hand. He squeezes at the base, _hard._

Desmond keens into his mouth, but Alex doesn't let up, staring down at him without an ounce of sympathy.

"Gonna say it now?" he goads. 

Desmond's heaving deep gulps of air, face flushed, lips red and kiss-swollen. Alex had intended to simply scare him into admitting he was wrong, but it's getting harder to focus on that with Desmond looking like this, with Desmond's dick in his hand.

It's easy to see that Desmond's overwhelmed, but there's a flicker of determination in his golden eyes as he meets Alex's head-on. He swallows.

"No," he says.

Alex wants to _scream._ Instead, he gets his hand back on Desmond, strokes the length of his dick until it's nice and slick from pre-cum. Desmond should be terrified of the monster in his midst, but instead his dick is _drooling_ and he keeps making these _sounds_ —groans and gasps falling from that wet open mouth that make Alex grit his teeth against the hot flush of arousal that's trying to overtake his mind.

God, the way Desmond _looks_ —it should be _illegal._

Once his fingers are coated enough, Alex makes short work of the underwear, too, and reaches lower, to that small, puckered entrance. Desmond twitches in his hold, but he doesn't say it. Alex is starting to wonder if he even understands the _meaning_ of a safe word.

Alex traces his hole with one finger, both of them unmoving except in that one place where all their focus has been drawn, Alex stroking, Desmond twitching. Their eyes meet. Alex's gaze is challenging and Desmond pants, completely unreadable.

Alex waits, but Desmond doesn't say it. After a moment, he just— _relaxes._ Melting against the wall and in Alex's grip like there's no place he'd rather be.

It makes Alex hesitate for the first time, thrown. He's _never_ had anyone's complete trust like this. No one's ever found cause to _relax_ around him.

And then Alex is angry all over again because now it's just going to hurt so much more when Desmond _does_ say it. To have a moment of complete acceptance, only to inevitably lose it when Alex disgusts him—it's beyond cruel.

Alex thinks he hates Desmond for it.

It's what gives him the resolve to plunge his fingers in deep without preamble. Desmond winces and Alex stares him down.

 _See? See?_ _This is what I am. This is what you're asking for. Say it. Say it._

He scissors his fingers, rubbing inside in searching strokes. He pulls out, only to plunge them back in, three fingers deep, to the second knuckle.

It's too soon, and Desmond hasn't had enough time to adjust, but he only clenches around him harder, eyes fluttering shut as he bites his lip hard enough Alex is expecting the sight of blood any second now.

When Alex starts fingering him in earnest, Desmond's mouth opens. He says, "Oh, God, Oh God, fuck, _ah,_ Alex, Alex, _Alex—"_

He says all of this, but he doesn't say the safeword. 

Alex fingers him at a punishing pace, his other hand coming to wrap around the straining, aching cock curved against Desmond's stomach.

If Desmond was being vocal before, it's _nothing_ compared to how he cries now. Gasping and tossing his head, straining against his bonds but unable to do anything but take what Alex is giving him, he looks—

_Gorgeous._

It doesn't take long after that. A few more pulls, a few more thrusts, and Desmond goes rigid, pumping out hot, white cum onto his stomach and Alex's hand with a long, drawn-out moan. Alex doesn't miss a second of it, watching unabashedly, unwilling to miss the way Desmond's face twists in pleasure, the way his abs clench and his eyes go distant and unfocused as pleasure washes over him.

The sight—it's _awful._ It's intoxicating.

Alex pulls his fingers out immediately, a full-body shudder overtaking him at the sound of Desmond's whine, but he needs his hands free. He takes a few steps away, keeping Desmond upright and pinned with a few more arms that stretch from his back, staring at Desmond with stark lust as he rolls his shoulders back and his clothes dissipate.

Desmond watches him with eyes blown wide, chest heaving and sweat glistening on his skin. Alex catalogs every drop and commits them to memory—they're not coming back from this, he knows, and after tonight memory is all he'll have.

Desmond doesn't react to more of the virus on his body, holding him fast against the wall. From the way he's watching Alex, transfixed, it's as if he hasn't even noticed.

He _does_ notice, however, when—once Alex stands naked—the tendrils lower him from the wall to the floor. Alex pulls him close, keeping Desmond bound with his knees pinned to the floor, legs spread wide, and his arms wrenched behind his back.

Alex takes himself in hand and rubs the head of his cock against Desmond's cheek, the corner of his mouth. Pre-cum smears on his olive skin and Alex almost loses it then and there just from the sight.

Alex gives himself one good stroke, then presses the tip against Desmond's lips.

Desmond looks so shocked, it's almost comical. Alex smirks, lazily smearing more pre-cum on his slightly parted lips.

"Open your mouth," he orders.

Alex thinks he's got him. It's demeaning, doing it like this, forcing him on his knees, _demanding_ his obedience and taking his pleasure like this. Desmond will open those lips against his cock, breathe the safeword, and he can finally stop kidding himself.

He thinks this right up until Desmond closes his eyes as a darker flush rises to his face. He opens his mouth. He sticks out his tongue, just a little.

Alex _stares._

 _Jesus fucking Christ._ Forget submachine guns, grenade launchers, nukes; _Desmond's_ going to be the thing that finally kills him.

Alex had been bluffing, but he can't deny Desmond when he obeys so beautifully. Alex rubs his tip on that waiting tongue at first, indulging in both the view and the warm, slick feel. Then he grips Desmond by the hair and slides in. 

Despite the entire motive of doing this, Alex doesn't _actually_ want to hurt him. Scare him, sure, but not _hurt._ So even though being rough would illustrate his point effectively enough, he can't bring himself to do it. Not like this.

So he goes slow. Testing Desmond's limit. Choking him is the last thing he wants.

But Desmond seems to have other ideas. Maybe after Alex's earlier actions, he's gotten a taste for it. Either way, when Alex stops, less than halfway in, Desmond strains against his grip, gets a few inches deeper.

He chokes, of course, and Alex yanks him off, heart racing from a mixture of fear, surprise, and intense desire.

 _"Desmond—!"_ he starts, voice sharp, and Desmond's eyes flutter open. He licks his lips.

"Sorry," he pants, cutting him off. "I can take it, Alex," he continues, _completely_ derailing Alex's lecture. He turns his head towards the glistening, spit-slick dick by his face and runs his lips over it in a coaxing, cherishing slide that makes it jump. "I know you want to," he says, voice rough from the slight choking. "Do it harder. I can take it."

 _"You don't know what you're asking,"_ Alex says harshly. Desmond's right, though. _Of course,_ he wants to do it harder, to plunge into that hot, soft mouth as deep as he can go and do it over and _over_ again. But Alex can't trust himself to not lose control, to do something they'll _both_ regret.

Regrets are clearly the _last thing_ on Desmond's mind. He looks up, lips still on Alex, and _begs._

"I want it."

 _Fuck it._ Alex will just have to _teach_ him his limits.

Angling Desmond's head where he wants it, he almost cums right on his face to see how Desmond's mouth drops open in eager anticipation. Alex slides in once more, without preamble, and starts fucking Desmond's mouth like he wants to, _taking_ his pleasure from it.

There's only the obscene sound of Desmond's small gulps of air, of the wet slide of Alex's dick going in and out. Sometimes Desmond tries to suck a little, tongue roaming. Mostly, he just lets himself be used, relaxing his jaw as Alex pistons in and out.

Alex's release hits him like a freight train hardly a minute in. The sight of Desmond submitting like this, with the feel of his hot, wet mouth and velvet-tongue, is a _devastating_ combination. 

He stays right where he is, watching through gritted teeth as Desmond's eyebrows come together, focused completely on swallowing every drop.

Alex only pulls out once the aftershocks have finally faded, watches Desmond's head sway as he tries to catch his breath, watches Desmond's tongue curl to chase a bead of Alex's release at the corner of his lips. His hands hover uncertainly, and then he slides his palms over Desmond's neck, traces the skin there as he turns his head slightly, inspecting, looking for any sign he'd gone too far, and finds he's at a loss. He's never been in this situation before.

"Desmond..." He can't tell if he hurt him, if it was too much. He _has_ to understand now, right?

Desmond ignores him for a moment, breaths still leaving him in gasps, and Alex spends the entire time feeling lower than shit. Desmond wanted him unbridled, uninhibited, and he got it. 

"Are you ready to say it now?" Alex asks, voice bleached of emotion.

Desmond raises his head and smacks his lips. Smiles _._ "Not even close."

Alex's eyes widen, then narrow.

He releases Desmond, but it only lasts a second. Desmond tilts, making a surprised sound as he sways, but Alex, settling on the ground, is already reaching out again. He pulls Desmond onto his lap and binds him again, legs spread, arms behind his back. He leans back enough so he can see and holds Desmond suspended over his dick, hard again—perks of an enhanced body, he supposes.

"Last chance," Alex warns.

Desmond's eyes, almost completely black, meet Alex's without an ounce of hesitation. Despite coming earlier, he's halfway to hard again. 

"I'm not going to say it, Alex. You have to realize that."

And the way he _sounds._ Like Alex is being _silly._ Like it's _obvious._

Alex feels ready to come out of his own _skin_ with frustration. _Why_ is Desmond making this so hard? Why can't he see this is insane?

Alex bares his teeth. "I'm going to fucking eat you alive," he promises.

And Desmond—the stupid, crazy, fucked-up _idiot_ —grins. "What a way to go," he purrs.

 _Desmond **fucking** Miles._ The thought is half-furious, half-awed.

Wanting nothing more than to wipe that smug, pleased smile off his face, Alex grips Desmond with more tendrils than he can keep count of and _shoves_ him onto his waiting cock.

Desmond's head, thrown back in shocked ecstasy, the vulnerable column of his throat as he gasps, the tight, hot clench around his dick—it all falls in place like a symphony, it's so good. Each separate movement contains its own grace, all together forming something worthy of worship.

And Alex does worship him, in his own way. He raises Desmond in what feels like both torture and a prayer of mercy, then drags him back down, each time overcome with reverence. 

And Desmond? He's just along for the ride.

Alex lasts longer like this. Partially because he's already released, so the build is slower. It must be _agony_ for Desmond, though, who'd been half-hard during the blowjob and can't chase after his release since Alex has him completely under his control. When Desmond looks like he's getting close, Alex reaches out and grasps the base of his dick.

Desmond's eyes shoot open, expression warring between betrayal and desperation.

"Alex— _shit_ —! _Please—!"_

 _"I'm not done with you yet,"_ Alex tells him, voice cold. "You can come when I _say_ you can."

Desmond shudders and clenches tighter around him. 

"Or," Alex says, voice unsteady, "You could just say it, and I'll stop. Everything would stop."

Desmond looks down at him, mouth falling open around moans, dick bouncing against his stomach with each thrust. He shakes his head.

 _"N-no,"_ he says, slurring slightly. "God, don't stop— _please."_

Alex does stop. He lurches up, ignores Desmond's cry of despair when he pulls out and knocks him to the ground. He holds Desmond's wrists down with his flesh ones, pressed tightly against the hard floor. He positions himself back at that slick, leaking entrance, and warns, "You asked for it."

Desmond nods frantically, and he arches off the ground, enough so that they're breathing the same air. "I did," he breathes, and then he kisses Alex, deep and thorough and full of tongue.

Alex doesn't know why this, out of everything, catches him off guard the most, but it does. Maybe it's the unabashed way Desmond does it. Maybe it's how much emotion he's pouring into the kiss, how frantic it feels, as if despite everything, he's scared the one thing Alex will do is _leave._ It shakes him to his core and Alex screws his eyes shut. He returns the kiss and thrusts back in, swallowing Desmond's cries of pleasure, drinking him in so much he feels indulgent with it. But not full. Never full.

Desmond finishes first, even though Alex hasn't touched him, not with their stomachs trapping his dick between them. His breaths start stuttering, hitching, and he tosses his head back, crying out. He gets impossibly tighter, so much so that it's nearly painful, and then Alex is coming right after him, finally breaking the kiss so he can bite on the slick, flushed skin of his neck, teeth sinking just shy of too hard. It takes every ounce of control he has not to sink just a little further, to _truly_ have Desmond from the inside out.

Alex collapses on top of him, probably too heavy, but Desmond doesn't so much as grunt in complaint. Arms wrap around Alex and shelter him against that firm, welcoming body.

They laid there in that cold, filthy warehouse for an indeterminable amount of time, slowly coming back to themselves. Alex notices how far the sun has sunk, how much time has really passed. Good thing HQ isn't expecting them until tomorrow.

Desmond's the first to break the silence, his voice a lazy, satisfied drawl that clashes harshly with the weak, wrecked thing it was just moments ago.

 _"Wow,_ you sure showed me," he says. "How could I _ever_ want to be with someone so mind-blowingly good at sex? What was I _thinking?"_

Alex frowns harshly. The sex was good— _earth-shattering,_ really, but Desmond still didn't understand. Alex didn't understand how he _couldn't._

"You don't get it," he ground out, "This is about more than sex. I don't have anything to offer _anyone_ and I'm only going to hurt—"

"Three!" Desmond interrupts, voice loud and clear.

Alex freezes, feeling as if he's been dunked in ice water. He jerks up on his forearms, staring at Desmond in incredulous disbelief.

 _All of that,_ the goading, the teasing, the rough treatment—and _this_ is what makes Desmond finally safeword? A _conversation?!_

Desmond smiles when their eyes meet, to see Alex's blatant confusion. He strokes a hand down the length of his face.

"I don't like it when people trash talk my boyfriend," he explains simply.

Alex stares. Sputters, _"Boy—?!_ I-I never agreed to that."

"Sure you did," Desmond replies sagely. "You said if I didn't safeword, there'd be no reason why we couldn't date."

"I never said that. You're paraphrasing."

Desmond rolls his eyes. "It's _basically_ what you meant. Besides, you huffed and you puffed, but I'm still here. Deal with it."

Alex narrows his eyes. "So, what? You were just trying to prove you could endure me?"

Desmond's expression softens. "No, dummy. I didn't say it because I never _needed_ to. I never felt unsafe, simple as that."

It feels—too big, trying to accept that even when Alex was at his most assertive, most dominant and controlling, Desmond had complete faith in him. Who—who _does_ that?

"You've got a deathwish," Alex murmurs, mortified to feel a lump rise to his throat.

"Maybe," Desmond agrees, smiling. He tilts Alex's face towards his and pecks him on the lips. Repeats, "But what a way to go."

Desmond looks so happy, Alex can't resist ducking down and stealing a kiss of his own, this one longer and lingering. When they break apart, Desmond has a pleased smile on his face, like the cat who got the cream, mouse, _and_ canary.

He gives Alex a firm pat on his sides. "I know I'm crazy hot, but you've got to go now."

Alex frowns, confused. "Why?"

"Because I'm cold and you wrecked my only change of clothes, asshole. Go get me some new ones."

Alex stares at him for a moment before a smile cracks his lips. Desmond glares at him half-heartedly and smacks Alex's arm.

"It's not funny!"

Alex's smile grows into a full-blown smirk. 

He says, "It's a little funny."

Desmond glares at him. "I changed my mind. I hate you."

"No, you don't." Alex steals another kiss, and when he pulls back, the pout is gone, making way for a look so fond it embarrasses Alex just to _see_ it, never mind being the cause of it.

Desmond agrees, "No, I guess I don't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...hey....guys...
> 
> I can already see your faces: ಠ_ಠ
> 
> LOL don't ask me where that came from, it just HAPPENED, okay?! It's normally not like me to write explicit content but it just...happened...
> 
> (and look, Desmond is a slut, SORRY!!!!!! but it's true, don't @ me.)
> 
> Honestly, just...don't hate me, lol. Be gentle in the comments, I am...just writing here...just flexing these creative muscles...OTL 
> 
> God, I wrestled so long with posting this, but the whole point of this event (for me, at least) was to just write something-anything-and not think about it too much. That was this. I promise I stay in my lane for a vast majority of these prompts!


	4. Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunday already, huh? It's also the official start of NaNoWriMo and I am STRESSED about it, lol.

**Universe: Canon-Verse/Fusion  
Status: Pre-Relationship  
Rating: Teen & Up  
Day 4: Fight  
POV: Desmond**

* * *

"DESMOND!"

 _Ugh. Too loud._ Desmond pries his eyes open unwillingly, wanting nothing more than to roll over and sleep for the next few _years._

He searches for the source of the yell and has to look up, up, _up_ into Alex's wide, upset blue eyes. 

It's the looking _up_ part that gives Desmond pause. _What...?_

It takes him a moment. He's on the ground, barely a foot away from the front door. He takes stock and realizes he must have passed out.

 _Explains the headache. And why my arm hurts._ Desmond's not sure how long he's been laying here, but he'd guess at least an hour, judging by the numbness radiating from his crushed limb where he's landed on it.

"What the _fuck,_ Desmond?" Alex falls to a crouch beside him, hands hovering uncertainly, hesitance and concern pouring from him in waves.

"Huh. Thought I'd at least make it to the couch," Desmond murmurs. Alex looks livid.

"You told me you were _fine,"_ he spits the last word, glaring. Desmond winces, rolling over and off his arm. The sudden rush of blood to the limb hurts bad enough his jaw locks against the urge to cry out. He tries to rise off the ground. His arms are shaking.

"Yeah, well, I knew you'd react like this."

"You're an idiot," Alex says brutally, but he's infinitely gentle when he picks Desmond up. 

"Oh, come on," Desmond balks, entirely too weak to squirm away, "You don't have to do that. I can walk."

Alex ignores him, merely carries him to bed. When he has Desmond propped against the headboard, his expression is painfully stern.

"Where's your first aid kit?"

"I don't—"

Through gritted teeth, eyes flashing, Alex repeats, "First. Aid. _Kit."_

Desmond swallows. He knows better than to argue when Alex gets like this.

Meekly, Desmond just points towards the bathroom. Alex sweeps from the room with purpose and Desmond breathes out a sigh of relief the moment he's gone.

 _Yikes._ So, maybe when Alex called and asked how his mission went, _maybe_ Desmond should have told the truth. Mentioned the ambush, the sprained ribs, the adrenaline that kept basic needs like food and water a low priority until it was too late; the light gunfight, the _smidge_ of torture.

But he knew Alex would come over to make sure he was okay, and that was the _last_ thing he'd wanted. Just imagining his worried expression made him feel guilty enough to slap on a happy face and lie through his teeth even as he swayed just inside his doorway. When he'd debriefed his father, he'd known better than to betray any weakness—and if _family_ was out of the question, what reason did he have to bother anyone else? Asking for that kind of attention made his skin crawl.

But if he'd been honest, at least Alex wouldn't be mad right now.

Alex comes back, grim and closed off. He throws the small plastic container on the sheets next to Desmond's legs. He has a damp washcloth in his hand.

"Where are you injured?"

Desmond shifts, winces. "My ribs are just a little sore, Alex, that's it. I don't really—"

Swifter than Desmond can avoid, even if he were at full strength, Alex tugs at the hem of Desmond's shirt, pulling it out and up. The sudden move shouldn't hurt, but it _does._ Desmond hisses out a breath, focusing his mind past the pain, confused and alarmed as the fabric _peels away_ from his skin like it's being ripped _off._ Now that he notices it, wasn't he wearing a white shirt...?

"You're _bleeding,_ Desmond."

"...Huh." Desmond genuinely doesn't know what to say about this development. He hazards a glance up and smiles sheepishly. "Uh, I guess they nicked my side."

If he thought Alex was grim before, it's nothing compared to the way he looks _now._ Carved from stone, but for his eyes, blazing with fury.

"You're injured and you didn't even _know_ it. You could have bled out."

"Well, that's a little dramatic, it's not even a big cut—"

"Shut the fuck up," Alex says quietly, voice sub-zero. "Or I will kill you."

Desmond shuts up.

Alex makes Desmond hold the fabric away from the wound and starts by wiping a wide path across his side; the washcloth comes away red with tacky blood. Desmond doesn't so much as grunt and focuses on Alex's face to distract himself from the pain.

He's still angry; it's clear from the pinched expression on Alex's face and the tense, heavy silence that hangs over the room, pregnant with a righteous rant teetering on the horizon. Desmond's not looking forward to it, but he can't deny that he probably deserves it. He's supposed to be better than this. Letting an injury like this go unchecked is unacceptable for an Assassin and letting an infection take him out before a Templar—it doesn't bear thinking about. It's too embarrassing.

Alex finishes with the cloth and studies the cut. Desmond holds his elbow out at an awkward angle, tries to get a good look, too, but Alex stops his movements with a firm, warning hold on his shoulder.

"You need stitches," he observes quietly. He presses a square of gauze against the open wound to stem the flow, a small frown on his face.

"Okay," Desmond says simply. When Alex glances up, Desmond just watches him back, waiting. Alex studies him for a moment, almost wary, before he reaches for the sutures lying in the kit. 

"It's gonna hurt," he cautions, peeling the gauze away to peek.

Desmond huffs. "I'll try not to cry too much," he says wryly.

"Hmph." He feels the sharp prick of the needle against the sensitive, inflamed skin of his wound. "We'll see."

The first pull of the needle makes Desmond grimace and set his jaw against the urge to cry out. It's not often that he needs to be stitched up, so it never occurs to him to pick up any sort of numbing agent and he always curses himself for it later. 

Still, he's had worse. And he knows it's better to distract himself instead of dwelling on the awful sensation of being stabbed repeatedly and feeling thick, coarse thread pulling through the meat of his flesh. 

"What did you come over for, anyway?" he asks, voice only a little strained. _Goddamn,_ that hurts.

"To check on you."

Desmond shoots Alex a confused look. "But we already talked? I told you I was fine. I know I wasn't—" he hurries to say when Alex glares at him, "But I mean, as far as you knew, I _was."_

Alex's fingers don't pause even as he levels Desmond with an expression of such tired disdain he feels his hackles raise despite himself.

"That was _hours_ ago, Desmond."

"Wait, what?" Desmond blinks. He'd gotten home about mid-morning. He supposes it didn't help that he tends to keep all his curtains drawn. "What time is it?"

"It's after six," Alex says, voice tight with renewed anger—if it had even left at all.

The time-frame makes Desmond balk. "...Jeez. How am I not dead?"

"An excellent question," Alex says, voice dipping into arctic temperatures again. 

Desmond sighs. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I really didn't realize it was that bad, honest." Desmond waits until Alex finishes, knotting the suture closed, to catch his eyes and say, sincerely, "I didn't mean to make you worry."

Alex's eyes narrow. "I wasn't—" He cuts himself off and looks away and Desmond lets himself smile slightly where it won't be seen. All evidence to the contrary...

"Just—don't pull a stunt like this again," Alex half-demands, half-threatens. He meets Desmond's eyes again, impassioned and hard as flint. "Next time you're injured, you fuckin' _say_ something."

"Uh, yeah. Okay." 

It's not like Desmond thought Alex was a _robot,_ but this sudden, fierce passion is hard to adjust to.

_"Swear it."_

"Okay, yes! I promise!" 

Alex glares at him for another beat, seemingly for good measure, before he gives a little nod and abruptly stands. He tosses the suture needle on Desmond's bedside table and looks at his hands, smudged with Desmond's blood. There's something distinctly...lost in his bearing in that instant. He shrugs his shoulders back as if physically pushing away the moment.

"I've got to go—"

"Wait!" 

Desmond stands, too quickly because it makes his side twinge like an electric shock. Grimacing, he lightly covers the bloodstained fabric over his fresh stitches.

"Desmond—" Alex steps close, worry flaring in his eyes, and the sight is the push Desmond needs.

Telegraphing his movements, Desmond reaches out and clasps Alex on the shoulder. The motion makes Alex freeze, but when he doesn't immediately break the hold, Desmond takes it as permission to push himself into Alex's space and press their chests together. His arm pulls Alex closer with one last nudge and he tucks his forehead against Alex's neck, the skin there feverishly hot against his forehead.

It feels as if Alex doesn't even breathe the entire time Desmond hugs him. He lets it linger for a few moments, then steps back. Alex watches him back with something wary and surprised in his eyes and Desmond gives a little smile in return, a helpless little shrug of his shoulder.

"Thank you, Alex," he says. 

Alex stares. The way his eyes seem to peer through him, discerning and thorough, has Desmond resisting the urge to shiver.

Finally, Alex looks away. He turns, paces away towards the door, and Desmond thinks that's that. He's not even hurt, really. Getting away with that hug with all his of his organs intact had been more than he'd expected.

He lowers himself back on the bed, mind only on sleeping off the exhaustion of the entire interaction and blood loss, but when he looks up, Alex is still there, fingers curled around the doorway, expression unreadable.

"...You're welcome," he says quietly, He looks forward, words both a threat and promise. "I'll be in touch."

Before Desmond can draw breath, he's gone, out of the apartment with a super-human speed that betrays his true nature. Alone, Desmond smiles. 

"Looking forward to it," he says to the empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this one-shot/drabble ended at _Desmond shuts up._ What do you think? Is it better extended, or nah?


	5. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title for this fic: What do you _mean?_
> 
> As of now, I have 36k written for these prompts. And I'm not even done with all of them! I will be forever thankful to Assassin J for having the biggest brain in the universe and creating this prompt event. This one's a little on the longer side, but it's not my longest entry by any means. Day 13 is nearly 6k! I have no self-control.

**Universe: Canon-Verse/Fusion  
Status: Pre-Relationship  
Rating: Teen & Up  
Day 5: Sleep  
POV: Desmond**

* * *

"There's only one bedroom."

Desmond blinked, his duffle bag hovering a few inches off the ground from where he'd paused in setting it down by the front door. Alex watched him from across the room, arms crossed. His face betrayed nothing other than maybe a mild annoyance.

"...Seriously?" Desmond's eyes darted around the small hotel room, realizing that the only other door past the split kitchen and living room must lead to the bathroom. He couldn't even muster the energy to be mad about the mistake, let alone trudge all the way back to the lobby and hope someone was still around this late to straighten things out.

_"Ugh._ All right, well," Desmond hiked the shoulder strap back over his arm just long enough so he could toss it on the couch. "I'll sleep here, then." 

He didn't even mind. While it was annoying that he couldn't crash on a nice, soft bed like he'd been dreaming of all day, he wasn't picky about it either. After so long living on the streets, in cells, and under observation, he'd take a couch any day.

"Your chivalry is wasted on me," Alex said, and Desmond resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Who talked like that? "You can have the bed. I don't need it."

Desmond shot Alex a confused, impatient look. Alex wasn't as bad as he seemed, Desmond had come to learn, but that didn't make his narcissistic personality any more charming. 

"What do you _mean_ you don't need it? A bed? Or sleep?" He opened his mouth but Desmond flapped a hand. "You know what? Doesn't matter. Either way, you're full of shit. We've been working non-stop for _days."_

Alex shrugged. "I feel fine." His cool eyes made a point of appraising Desmond. "You look like shit, though."

"Oh, fuck off," Desmond groaned, flipping him off. It lost its effect, however, because of the smile he couldn't quite hide and Alex smirked.

Chivalry _wasn't_ a waste, apparently, when it came to Alex. He let Desmond take the shower first and he didn't argue, eager to wash off the past few days of creeping in alleys, crawling through vents, and finding himself in the splash zone of some of Alex's more zealous take-downs.

With the water just shy of scalding, Desmond finally relaxed for the first time in nearly a week. Finding a common enemy was probably the best thing that could have happened when it came to meeting Alex, and Desmond was only too grateful that Abstergo had funded a good many of Gentek—and thus, Blackwatch—projects for the last few years. Meeting Alex when he was in the midst of sneaking into a Gentek facility had been... _memorable,_ to say the least, but it became clear, quickly, that they were more or less on the same team. For the time being. Getting on the wrong side of a virus wasn't on anyone's bucket list and as Desmond was the only contact Alex would deal with, it left him quite alone as they searched the darker recesses of Gentek and Abstergo facilities, scouring for intel on their next moves and how they could cripple them past bodies strewn in the streets.

Alex was certainly an acquired taste, but he wasn't a difficult man to figure out. Strange origins or no, he was someone just looking for answers, trying to right a great wrong. His methods were gruesome, but his intentions were good, and it wasn't as if Desmond was a saint either. 

It helped that Alex was thawing over time. His icy, closed-off demeanor that had seemed so rude at first had revealed itself to be nothing more than an intense social awkwardness. Alex wasn't a guy who spent a lot of time with people, and it showed. And Desmond was a sucker because the moment he understood _that,_ Alex suddenly became a lot more endearing.

Desmond thunked his head against the shower wall. _Stop it._ That thought would only lead to _other_ thoughts, and Desmond was technically _working_ right now. He didn't have time to think about how surprisingly hot Alex looked when he fought, the way his cool eyes grew fiery as he stabbed someone twice his size, the ease with which he climbed skyscrapers, how Desmond didn't seem to weigh more than a feather in his arms when he leapt across buildings, the way his tongue swiped across his bottom lip, catching the blood of his latest victim—

Desmond slammed his head against the wall again, _hard._

_STOP IT._

"You dying in there?" Alex called, a faint hint of curiosity threading into his usual gruff tone. 

Desmond reached out and shut off the shower. "Just slipped!"

The hotel felt much cooler when he stepped out. He peeked around only to see Alex standing by the window, peering into the night with a brooding expression Desmond was growing increasingly familiar with.

"Out, dude." Alex shot him a blank look and Desmond rounded the couch. He fell onto it with a sigh. "I can't sleep if you're practicing your internal monologue over there."

Alex's brows furrowed. "I told you to take the bed."

"And I said I was fine with the couch."

"I told you I didn't need it."

"Yeah, yeah," Desmond said. He threw his forearm over his eyes and waved at Alex vaguely with his other hand. "You're a big tough guy, you don't have any weaknesses, I get it; just take the bed, dude."

Something like frustration was apparent in Alex's voice. 

"You don't understand," he said. "I _really_ don't need it. At all. I don't sleep."

Demond raised his arm, squinted at him. "What do you mean, _you don't sleep?"_

Alex met his eyes squarely. "The _virus,_ Desmond. I don't _need_ to sleep. I need to consume, occasionally, but that's it."

"Wait, wait, wait," Desmond swung back up, bracing his hands on the cushions. "You mean you _literally_ don't sleep? _Ever?"_

Alex shook his head. 

Desmond was taken-aback. "So, what, you just...kill people and think about vengeance all the time?"

Alex scowled, but the fact that he didn't argue was pretty telling.

"Oh my fucking god." So much, _so_ _much_ about Alex made way more sense now. No wonder the guy was so cold.

"Okay! That settles it!" Desmond clapped his hands together, hopped off the couch, and marched towards Alex.

Alex watched him warily, tense, but thankfully didn't immediately eviscerate Desmond when he grabbed his wrist and pulled.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Saving both of our sanities." He gave Alex's wrist another tug when he refused to budge. "Come on."

With obvious reluctance and distrust, Alex nonetheless allowed himself to be pulled into the bedroom, lowered his arm when Desmond waved off his motion to turn on the lights. He stood there in the doorway and watched Desmond turn down the sheets and blankets, and crossed his arms when Desmond clearly laid down on one side and excitedly pat the free space.

"Okay, hop in."

"I literally just told you I'm incapable of sleeping."

"Then don't think of it as sleeping," Desmond reasoned. "Think of it as...meditation or something." Desmond adjusted Alex's pillow for optimum comfort. "Just because you can't sleep doesn't mean you can't rest. Trust me on this, just lie back, turn off your brain for a little bit, and relax. Otherwise, you're gonna drive yourself crazy."

Alex didn't look completely won over, but he seemed to be considering it, at the very least. 

Desmond pat the mattress again, gave it a little rub to make it extra enticing.

"Come on, humor me," he wheedled. "Otherwise I'm just gonna get more annoying."

Alex made a derisive noise under his breath and uncrossed his arms. "Now _that_ I do believe."

For all his bravado, Alex was tentative as he rounded the bed. He hovered there awkwardly, eyes quickly darting between the empty space and Desmond. 

It was _so_ tempting to tease, but Desmond refrained. Instead, he tucked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, looking for all the world like he was already half-way asleep. He had a feeling he'd appreciate Desmond's silent, lead-by-example approach.

There's was a long stretch of time where nothing happened. Desmond forced his body relaxed, his eyelids not to twitch even though the urge to peek was growing _unbearable._ But then, _finally,_ the bed dipped—

A _lot._

"Whoa!" Desmond started to roll to the middle of the bed and only Alex's hand stopped him from toppling over completely. Desmond looked up and met Alex's blue eyes, watching him back with amusement.

"Uh, what the hell?" Desmond glanced around, taking in the ridiculous dip in the bed Alex was causing. "Do you secretly weigh a thousand pounds or something?"

"Yeah."

"What do you mean, _yeah?!"_

Another shrug. "I retain a lot of mass," he said simply. Desmond stared down at him for a minute before he let his head drop onto the pillow. 

"You know what? I don't even want to know." He rolled onto his back, but the entire side of his body was still pressed against Alex. He tried scooting away, but he just kept sliding over. Desmond huffed, hoping to _god_ the slight blush on his cheeks wasn't visible. "Sure hope you like cuddling," he muttered.

"I don't," Alex said flatly. 

Desmond barely made it half-way off the bed before Alex's hand clamped down on his shoulder and pulled him back down. Desmond absolutely didn't squawk.

"Wha—You just said—"

"It's fine." Alex was staring straight up at the ceiling. At least he didn't look annoyed. "Just lay down. You're the one who needs the rest."

Desmond made a dissatisfied noise, but let himself settle back down. The couch was fine, but he wasn't going to pass up the opportunity for a bed, either. Not to mention, it wasn't exactly a _tragedy_ being close to Alex—

_Oh my god, STOP._

"So you want me to just lay here? Staring at nothing?" 

Desmond tilted his head slightly off the pillow and squinted at Alex critically. He gently placed the tip of his fingers on Alex's forehead, dragged them down to coax his eyes shut.

"I want you to _relax_ for once in your life."

Alex sighed through his nose, a sharp, short exhale of impatience, but he seemed willing to humor Desmond for the moment because he didn't open his eyes. 

Smiling to himself, Desmond settled down on his back, trying to focus on his exhausted body and not the fact that he and Alex were sharing the same pillow. 

It didn't take long. Once Alex stopped griping and he had two seconds of silence and stillness, he passed out.

* * *

"It won't hurt."

_No._

"A spark."

_No. Stop._

"There will be no pain."

_NO._

"It will be over in an instant."

_NO!_

**"TOUCH THE PEDESTAL."**

* * *

"Desmond. Desmond!"

A lurching gasp jerked Desmond upright and he heaved, ice cold, heart racing so fast it _hurt._ He brought his hand to his chest, still feeling the phantom ache of his blood boiling, his skin bubbling and cooking and _burning_ —

"Desmond."

He flinched automatically, but they were blue, an ally. Just sitting next to him— _in bed?_ —hand warm on Desmond's shoulder.

_What? Where—Why—_

The mission. The hotel. _Alex._

Desmond sagged, covering his face. It was the most privacy he could give himself under the circumstances.

"It was just a bad dream." He wasn't sure who he was trying to reassure. "I'm fine. Sorry."

Alex didn't say anything, but he didn't lie back down, either. Just sat there with Desmond and waited. After a few moments, Desmond slid his hands down his face, let them plop down in his lap as he squinted at Alex.

"Shit. I fucked up your sleep, didn't I?"

"I wasn't sleeping."

Desmond ignored him. "Did you rest at all?"

Alex looked askance. "Not at first. Couldn't stop thinking. I started focusing on your breathing." Desmond blinked at him, surprised. Alex met his look and shrugged. "It helped. Gave me something to focus on."

"Oh. Okay? Glad...glad I could help." Desmond decided not to let that comment go to his head. "At least one of us got to relax tonight."

"You still can," Alex pointed out. "You were barely asleep for an hour."

Desmond groaned. "Yeah," he said, exhausted. "That sounds about right. I just..." Desmond looked back at his arm, for all intents and purposes perfectly fine. But he could feel it, foreign, just beneath his skin. He shuddered. "I don't think I can go back to sleep," he muttered.

_"Try,"_ Alex said, oddly forceful. 

Desmond shot him a look. 

"You need to sleep, Desmond. Otherwise, you're a liability to me."

"Gotta focus on what's important," Desmond commented dryly. Alex flicked his forehead and he scowled. 

"Lay down."

"All right, _Jesus."_

But try as he might, Desmond couldn't slip back into blissful unconsciousness. Even if his nightmare had already faded, the actual memories were always just below the surface, ready and waiting. Every time he got comfortable, the emotions flooded back, the desperate, helpless need to run. Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the light, all-consuming, inescapable and merciless.

A sudden grip on his arm made Desmond's eyes snap open, but before he could react he was being tugged until he was laying half-sprawled on top of Alex. Two arms came around him like steel clamps to keep him pinned.

"Uhhhhhh," Desmond started.

"You keep _moving,"_ Alex complained, terse.

Desmond opened his mouth to argue, to apologize, to promise to stop and give Alex his space back—

"...Okay."

He'd _never_ admit it, but until Alex had done it, Desmond hadn't realized this was exactly what he needed. Maybe that made him a pretty pathetic Assassin, needing someone to hold him at night when he had a bad dream, but he felt like he could trust Alex to watch over him, to protect him. Desmond had seen him in action; he had nothing to worry about.

Desmond sighed into Alex's chest, dared to tentatively hold him back. It was quiet, and while a part of Desmond thought this was _so_ awkward—Alex wasn't the touchy type, not by a long shot—most of him was just grateful Alex had reached out, even if he only saw it as a means to an end.

But as his body slowly started to relax, Desmond became aware of something odd, something he couldn't quite place at first, but grew increasingly more aware of the longer he focused on it.

Then, he realized it all at once.

"You're not breathing," Desmond said, taken aback.

"Don't need to."

Desmond's hand moved, brushed over Alex's layers—

_Why is he still wearing all these clothes?_

—to lay flat on his chest. 

"You don't have a heartbeat," he said, even more surprised.

"Don't have a heart."

Stunned, Desmond grappled with that for a moment. "Wow..."

It was almost impossible to wrap his head around. Alex was so warm, and he got angry and felt pain and always smiled when he jumped off a building—he was _human,_ in a way Desmond couldn't describe, but this was proving to be a harsh reminder of how simultaneously removed Alex was. This, more than seeing Alex's abilities in action, truly put things into perspective.

"I can hear yours, though."

"You can?" It was such an innocuous comment, but it made him blush all the same. Alex _was_ holding him.

"Yep." A pause, and Alex squeezed Desmond's shoulders. "It's getting faster."

Desmond was _so_ glad Alex couldn't see his burning face.

"I know," he said quietly, embarrassed.

A small noise left Alex, one of amusement. 

"Anything you wanna tell me?"

"Nope."

"Really?"

_"Goodnight,_ Alex!"

A chuckle. "Goodnight, Desmond."

When Desmond risked a quick, stealthy peek at his face, Alex's eyes were closed. His face was smoothed of its usual tense lines and a hint of a smile was on his lips. It might have been at his expense, but Desmond was willing to take it all the same. 

He laid his head back down on Alex's warm, still chest, his eyes slipped shut, and sleep found him once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I play fast and loose with Alex's biology here. CANONICALLY, the Blacklight Virus recreated Alex Mercer from a cellular level out, which is why he defaults to "Mercer" as his appearance simply because he's more "Mercer" than anyone else he's absorbed. SO, theoretically, he probably has the same internal organs/processes as any other human, but you know what else is super fun and sexy to consider??? Him NOT having those things! His struggle with the perception of his own humanity partly stemming from wearing a 'person suit' and inside being nothing but this writhing, hungry virus! Idk, I just like the idea of Alex being a person mentally while simultaneously being so far removed from a normal human. It's just good food.
> 
> This h/c won't be in all my prompts, so if there's a past/future one that talks about Alex's heart or whatever, I'm not forgetting my own writing! lol I'm just having some fun~ 
> 
> Can't get enough of Assassin's Creed, Prototype, Infamous, or Watch Dogs? Then BOY, do I have the Discord Server for you, run by the biggest brains in the _galaxy_!!! @[Infamous Protocreed_Dogs](https://discord.gg/k72uA29zb3)
> 
> Come scream with us!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and see you next Sunday!


	6. Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, yeah, it's Sunday! Time for some ProtoCreed!
> 
> Discord: @[Infamous Protocreed_Dogs](https://discord.gg/k72uA29zb3)

**Universe: Canon-Verse/Fusion  
Status: Pre-Relationship  
Rating: Teen & Up  
Day 6: Kiss  
POV: Alex**

* * *

People who weren't Desmond or Dana were, at best, annoyances, and at worst, food. But it wasn't because Alex had an axe to grind with the general population. It was just so incredibly obvious that humanity was a mistake. Greedy, selfish, prideful, self-centered—the list stretched endlessly, was only lengthened with every day that passed and humans ran rampant like a plague on the earth.

Dana, when she heard him say something to that effect, had said, "I get it, but chill."

Desmond had said, "Dude. What the fuck?"

Not like he didn't _know_ that wasn't the kind of thing you said in general company, but he thought it important that the people he cared about knew where he stood, didn't suffer any delusions about him or his nature. 

But Alex didn't hate people as a rule. Sure, he'd felt hatred before, but he'd made short work of those who'd done something to earn that seething, undying rage and lust for blood. It wouldn't be quite right to say that Alex didn't hate _anyone,_ though. More like, once he'd made the decision, he bestowed his hatred without a look back. 

Right now, however, that hatred was being earned rapidly by Clay Kaczmarek. 

Clay was the perfect example of someone Alex tolerated only because of Desmond. While Alex wasn't interested in joining their little cult, Assassins were some of the most tolerable people he'd met. Altruistic, if not a bit misguided, and they valued quietude, stealth, minding your own business and thinking with their heads instead of their heart—all points Alex agreed with readily.

Clay Kaczmarek was the antithesis of these values. He was whip-sharp, there was no doubt, but he was also loud, irreverent, self-assured to the point of narcissism and quite possibly _the most_ annoying person had Alex had ever met. Whenever Alex was forced to be in the same room as him, he would shoot Desmond a look, _Can I please kill him now?_ Desmond would smile, Alex would get his hopes up, and then Desmond would shake his head 'no'. 

Clay had tried to engage Alex in conversation, but he always started every interaction as if with the goal to be as abrasive as possible. 

_Where do all those people go after you eat them? Do you still hear their thoughts? Do you get all their memories, or just the recent ones? Are you even human anymore? Do you care?_

Desmond would swoop in with a panicked smile to distract Clay with some new mission or an excuse, all while dragging a seething, blood-thirsty Alex far, _far_ away, whispering fervent apologies and pleas in his ear. Clay had no idea, but Desmond had saved his life dozens of times. 

Desmond had explained Clay's own time within the animus, how his mind had been even more fractured than Desmond's, how it had taken no small amount of personal effort and sheer luck for Desmond to help bridge the pieces of his consciousness together the way Clay had done for him. That, more than anything, was what had kept Alex's restraint in check, even though he was hard pressed at times not to lure Clay to some deserted, dark corner and be done with it. He wouldn't even consume him—Alex didn't want that annoying voice in his head any more than he already had to suffer.

Clay had always been a thorn in his side, but that had never pushed him past his limits. Not until now, when acute frustration blossomed into hatred—blood flowering in the water—when he walked around the corner of the Assassin's latest hideout and was just in time to see Clay lean in and kiss Desmond.

Alex and Desmond both went rigid, but while Desmond's reasons were nebulous, Alex's were obvious; seething, enraged, all-encompassing _hate_ ripped through him with the savage ruthlessness of a jagged-toothed chainsaw. 

He must have made some noise—a growl, a snarl, some amalgous, inhuman note of rage—because they jerked apart, expressions of surprise on their faces. Desmond's face was red with the start of a comely blush, embarrassed, with lingering notes of confusion. Clay just raised a brow, as if merely curious.

The sight of him brought the frenzy of tumultuous emotion to a knife-sharp point, laser-focused on his target. Alex thrust his arms out at his sides as they rippled into long, gleaming blades that hummed in the silence, thirsty for blood.

Both of the Assassin's eyes went wide. 

"Alex—" Desmond started.

Alex _burst_ into motion, eating the distance between him and Clay in a second. Clay, the bastard, leapt back immediately, used the flat of his palm to propel himself over the nearby table. He gripped the edge of it and flipped it in Alex's face and Alex sliced it in half, heedless of the papers that flew around them like debris caught in a tornado, of the laptop that clattered and cracked on the hard asphalt. 

It only took a moment to deal with the obstacle, but Clay was already a good distance away, climbing one of the wooden support beams to the rafters above. Alex jumped straight up like an infernal black arrow to pull himself into the beams opposite.

"Guys!" Desmond shouted below, sounding panicked. "Stop! _Stop!"_

Alex ignored him. Clay, too. He should have been terrified to see Alex in all of his macabre glory, pulsing with alien flesh, eyes glowing red with killing intent, but he wasn't. Across the distance, he balanced on a large beam and _smirked._

It whipped Alex's killing intent into something white-hot and super-charged. This man was _dying._ Right here, right now.

Alex came at him with all the inevitability of a freight train. Clay produced throwing knives, seemingly from nowhere, but Alex didn't bother dodging them, let them slice across his body and face as he charged forward. And still, Clay was completely unbothered. The moment Alex was less than a foot away, tendrils of mass reaching out to devour, _Clay_ shot forward. 

Something glinted in his grasp and then he shoved his palm into Alex chest and something _shattered._

Alex, too caught up in his blood-lust and the euphoria of an imminent kill, was too slow to react. Instantly, a noxious, thick, familiar cloud of red swallowed him whole.

Alex had grown resistant, but this felt stronger, more concentrated, and he breathed far too much of it before he understood what was happening. 

_Bloodtox. Fuck._

Weakness suffused his veins and his bio-mass sunk back beneath the skin. He swayed, visions growing hazy, but through his nearly-closed eyelids he could make out Clay's smug face, his _damn_ smile.

Clay placed his fingertips on Alex's chest, harmless and hated. 

"Whoops," he said, and he pushed.

Alex plummeted through the air like a fallen asteroid. His own weight turned against him, he slammed into the concrete hard enough to created a crater of fragmented concrete, splintering away from him like broken glass.

Alex groaned, squeezed his eyes shut as he fought the effects of the toxin. _I'm gonna fucking kill him._

_"Alex!"_ Running footsteps, the sound of sneakers sliding across gravel, and then warm hands were on his face, on his chest, levering him up against an upraised knee.

Struggling, Alex managed to peel open his eyes to meet Desmond's, huge and brown and _screaming_ frantic concern.

His dark eyes flittered over Alex for a moment before he twisted his head to the side, indignant and upset.

"What the fuck did you do to him?!"

"Oh, relax," Clay's drawling voice grew closer. Alex could hear his casual, measured footsteps and it made his anger spike again, that he was being so blase before Alex, like he was _safe._ "It wasn't even a large dose. He'll be fine, scout's honor."

"How—Where did you even _get_ that? _Why_ do you have that?"

"Um, are we forgetting the part where your little pet here went rabid and tried to _kill me?"_ Clay drew even with the edge of the crater and crossed his arms, looking down at Desmond with disapproval, as if Alex wasn't even _there._

_I'm going to FUCKING kill him._

"No, I'm not—I don't get what that was and I'm glad you're okay," Desmond said sincerely, "I just—"

Clay interrupted him by producing something from his pocket and holding it out in the light; a clear glass vial of crimson Bloodtox. The sight of it nearly made Alex recoil, face contorting in a fierce snarl of fury.

"Call it an insurance policy," Clay explained. "I get that the Assassins are in dire straits these days, but it just didn't sit right with me to let such a big security risk into the heart of our operations without _some_ form of protection. So I may or may not have broken into a government facility that shall remain unnamed and— _liberated_ some confiscated Gentek assets. And it was a good thing I did! You saw the way he reacted just now, didn't you?" Clay tossed the vial idly. "I'd be mincemeat now if I hadn't."

Alex started moving, tried to get out of Desmond's hold as he glared fiercely up at Clay. Desmond's hands came up, holding him back, and in Alex's momentary weakness, he was successful. The _second_ he got his strength back—

_"I'll tear you apart,"_ he vowed darkly, voice rough and steeped in enough vitriol it felt like it was burning the inside of his throat. "I'll _destroy you."_

Clay whistled, smirking "Damn, he's pissed," he said conversationally. Desmond shot him a frayed, exasperated look. "What set you off, I wonder?" His eyes slid to Desmond and Alex didn't like how his smile turned darker, knowing. "Right when Desmond and I were getting to the _good_ part..."

Another bolt of vicious hatred and Alex sneered, managed enough strength to turn one of his arms into a long scythe.

Clay laughed. "Wow, _somebody's_ jealous." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm not interested in a round two, unfortunately, so I'll leave the mad dog in your capable hands, Desmond." He gave a two-fingered salute and winked. "Catch ya later."

Alex growled, started to climb up to his feet to chase after him because Clay was _not_ getting away, but Desmond stopped him, jumping up in front of Alex to stop his progress.

"ALEX!" He grabbed Alex by his upper arms, tried in vain to catch his eyes. _"What_ has gotten into you?!"

Alex jerked out of his hold, scowling. "You're in the way," he snarled, eyes already going back to the edge of the crater. "I've got a body to put in the ground."

Desmond refused to be brushed off. He spread his arms, getting too close, dark eyes too full of naked concern and confusion.

"Alex. What the _fuck?!"_ Frustration bled into his tone. "I know you don't like Clay, but you can't _kill him!"_

Alex bared his teeth. "Give me one good reason why I _shouldn't._ He's walking around with fucking _Bloodtox,_ what do you think _for?_ Either I kill him, or he kills me."

_"NO._ Alex, you didn't even know he had it until _after_ you attacked him." Disappointment stole over Desmond's features, and it was a horrible sight to see. Alex despised that it affected him so deeply. "Why would you try to do something like this? What do you think would happen if you _did_ kill him, huh?" Hurt and anger made Desmond stare straight into his eyes, forcing Alex to see the consequences of his actions. "The Assassins would never trust you again. I'd be ordered to _hunt you down._ And then either you would kill me, or I would kill _you._ Is that what you want?"

Beneath the merciless onslaught of Desmond's pained, angry gaze, Alex felt the awful, gnawing bite of guilt.

"...No," he said quietly, eyes averted. He gave up on his plans of chasing Clay down and his arm returned to normal. Desmond lost a bit of tension in his face to see it. "Of course not."

"Then— _why?_ Why did you do that? You always talk about it, but this time..." Desmond trailed off, arms finally falling, something wary and uncertain in his gaze. "You really were going to, weren't you?"

Alex didn't answer because the truth was obvious. Desmond had seen him in action before, he knew what Alex looked like when he was about to kill.

"Alex," he said quietly. He took a step forward. "Why?"

At his sides, his hands tightened into fists. He didn't speak.

Desmond stood with him in the silence for a moment before heaving a quiet sigh that Alex couldn't decipher—tired? Pissed? Disappointed?

Then he came even closer, close enough his shoes stopped a bare inch away from Alex's. His breath caught when Desmond cupped a tense fist in his palm, just holding.

"...Is it true?" he asked, voice soft. 

Alex glanced up at him, wary, heart slamming against his chest. "Is what true?"

Desmond had a rare serious expression on his face, eyes slowly searching Alex's in thought.

"Were you jealous?" he asked. "When Clay kissed me?"

Just the reminder made Alex's vision go red for a moment and Desmond's eyes widened to see that preternatural glow up close. Alex wanted to look away, but found he couldn't, not when Desmond was staring straight into the heart of him, not when Desmond was _touching_ him.

"...Yes," he finally admitted. He didn't look away. "I was."

Desmond sucked in a sharp, nearly-silent breath. He'd asked the question, but he still appeared blindsided by the confirmation.

"There...there are better ways to handle that," he finally said, suddenly looking tired. He broke eye contact and released Alex's fist to cover his face with both hands. "God, I'm so pissed at you. If you had—and if you'd made me _watch—"_

_Fuck._ Alex was truly starting to realize how much he'd fucked up. He couldn't muster any regret for attempting to murder Clay, but now he wished he hadn't done it in front of Desmond, at least.

This time, Alex reached out. He took Desmond's wrists in a gentle grip and slowly lowered them, met Desmond's raw, exhausted eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said lowly. "I wasn't thinking straight. You're right, I should have handled that better."

Desmond stared at him, lips pinched, before he broke Alex's hold and hugged him around the shoulders, tight and desperate. 

"You're damn right, you should have," he said roughly. "That was too fucking close. I don't—I don't want to lose you, Alex."

Alex froze, hands hovering uncertainly, but when Desmond seemed content to stay right where he was, he carefully returned the embrace. His arms settled around Desmond's waist, first lightly, then tight as a vice. He drank in the warmth of Desmond's body heat and the solidness of his body as it soothed the remaining ragged edges of his mind.

"I don't want to lose you, either," he confessed. Desmond's honesty demanded he respond in kind. 

Desmond held him closer. "Then don't pull this shit again, okay?"

Alex's eyes slipped closed. "I promise."

Desmond sagged in his hold, like those were the words he'd been waiting for, and the ache in Alex's chest grew, hating himself more than anyone in that moment for causing Desmond so much distress when he was already burdened with more than his fair share of it. 

They stood in that embrace for a countless time, drawing peace and strength from one another. Alex was introspective by nature, but he wasn't prone to second-guessing himself. It seemed destined for Desmond to draw all these new feelings and experiences out of him.

"You don't need to be, just so you know," Desmond mumbled cryptically into Alex's shoulder.

Alex's brow furrowed. "What?"

"The...jealously thing. You don't need to be," he explained, voice quiet, almost shy. "I don't...feel that way for Clay. I'm pretty sure he was just fucking with me with that kiss."

"Oh," Alex didn't know what to say to that. It was a relief, certainly, that Desmond wasn't about to start making out with Clay any time soon, but if Clay thought that not being serious about Desmond saved him from Alex's wrath, he was dead wrong.

"Yeah, um. I kinda have my eyes on someone else," Desmond confessed.

Another sharp stab of bitter jealousy; Alex swallowed it down, tried to relax from the minute tense of his body that Desmond had no doubt already noticed.

"I see."

Desmond huffed, an amused sound, and pulled away—but when Alex loosened his grip to let him go, already aching to feel him pressed close again, Desmond stopped so that their faces were intimately close. He was smiling, a small, soft curve of his lips that Alex felt willing to die for.

Without a word, Desmond leaned close and placed a gentle, lingering kiss on Alex's cheek. Stunned, Alex could do nothing more than stare at Desmond, completely nonplussed.

"I hope you do," Desmond said, smiling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk about 0 to 60, right? lol 
> 
> Also, I love Clay Kaczmarek with all my heart. ❤❤❤


	7. Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Against all odds, it's Sunday again! Time stopped being real for me ever since I got sick, so it's exciting to know the world is indeed still spinning. Gives me hope one day I might be able to leave my bed without wanting to collapse. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

**Universe: Canon-Verse/Fusion  
Status: Pre-Relationship  
Rating: General  
Day 7: Dance  
POV: Alex**

* * *

You have to watch Desmond.

Ask anyone who knows him, and you'll hear the same things; Desmond's a friendly guy. He's easy-going, and likes to crack lame jokes, and can mix a mean margarita. 

He's dumb but means well.

He abandoned the Assassins once and might do so again.

The longer Alex has known Desmond, the less inclined he's come to believe any of it. 

It's true that Desmond's a nice guy; he's friends with _Alex_ for Christ's sake, and anyone who could accomplish that feat was practically an angel. But Desmond's kindness was a learned thing, a choice he made every day in spite of all of the bad that had come his way. People saw Desmond's willingness to help, his offers of a shoulder to cry on or a body to help round out a team for a mission, and saw something to take advantage of, maybe, or someone easy enough to order around. But if there's one thing Desmond isn't, it's stupid. 

He's observant, to a degree that's scary. He has a way of looking at a person, _really looking,_ that makes all of their secrets suddenly visible. Alex would know. He's been on the receiving end of it more than once and it felt like having his skin flayed from his bones and everything he's ever tried to conceal exposed in the harsh, unforgiving light of those golden eyes. Desmond's opened his mouth after one of those looks and laid bare some of Alex's deepest regrets, his most shameful secrets, in just a few simple words. Stark. Clear. Merciless.

But he's never judged Alex. He saw through Alex's bravado in an instant and held out his hand despite the countless times Alex has slapped it away. That last time, the one that finally made Alex realize Desmond wasn't going to give up on forging a friendship with him, Alex had looked into those kind, patient eyes and seen a strength that he knew he had no hope of overcoming, no matter the virus.

Desmond plays the part of simple-minded grunt-man, but Alex knows better. The pressure of his place in the Order, the responsibilities on his shoulders, the weight of power that lies dormant within him, mind-boggling and inconceivable—The fight had been beaten out of him long before Alex came along. Taking the abuse from his friends and family, whether intentional or not, has become second nature. Its become painfully clear that he sees himself as nothing more than his usefulness to the Assassins, what he can do for them.

Alex has heard what Desmond's friends have said, particularly the one with the accent. That Desmond's lazy, and whiny, and could stand to lose a little more weight. Alex knows that it comes from a better place these days, that the scathing comments have smoothed into fond exasperations and inside jokes, but Alex can't forgive those words, not when Desmond puts on a brave face, and laughs, and pretends they don't bother him at all.

Desmond doesn't complain, _ever._ He ducks his head, gets the job done, and doesn't expect a single word of thanks. And when Desmond wants something? Even something small? He'll _never_ say it. He'd probably die first.

But, luckily for Alex, with time and dedicated study, Desmond's become easier to read. 

Take now, for instance.

Calling it a party would be generous; Assassins don't _party,_ per se. But initiation ceremonies are the closest they get. Alex isn't an Assassin by any means—nor would he ever want to be one—but he's an official-unofficial ally and, by virtue of knowing Desmond alone, can attend events like these.

They're in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, at an Assassin safehouse nestled in the mountains of Colorado, off-grid and spacious. The log cabin is huge, an abandoned ski-lodge turned Assassin stronghold, and from his position on the balcony, Alex can see everything. Every exit, for one, but he also has a bead on the people gathered in front of the large fireplace, drinks in hand as they laugh and talk and welcome their newest recruits. Others are sprinkled around the room, talking in low murmurs, watching the room just as carefully, even surrounded by allies. Music is set to a low level, probably as not to offend their delicate killer sensibilities, but it sets a relaxed tone, a beat that's easy to move to without being deafening. But most of his attention is across the balcony, below the floor to ceiling windows at the head of the lodge.

The higher-ups of the order, easily distinguised by the sticks up their asses despite the celebratory atmosphere as they sit and talk amongst themselves at the large wooden table. Masters. The Mentor. Desmond.

Desmond, who's nodding along to something his father says, face placid as he responds. It's obvious they're talking about his latest mission. Desmond always gets a certain blank look when he's talking about work, and he's wearing it now, defaulting to it beneath his father's watchful gaze. He looks perfectly respectable, attentive and agreeable. But Alex is the only one really watching him. So he's the only who notices the way Desmond's eyes dart away when he thinks no one's watching. His eyes fall to the first floor in furtive peeks, to where people are clustered on the hardwood floors, laughing, talking, yelling, dancing.

It's the dancers that he's watching most of all, and something like longing seeps into his expression before he manages to tear his eyes away. The cycle continues and the longer Alex watches, the more it bothers him and his fingers sink into his upper arms where they're crossed, tight enough he'd probably crush his own bones if he was less careful.

But Desmond isn't the most infamous assassin for show. Not long into Alex's observation, his gaze sweeps across the room, meticulous and careful. Their eyes meet across the balcony and Alex watches the change on Desmond's face from his shadowed corner, watches the Assassin-rigidity fade for a moment. Desmond's lips quirk in a smile, small and pleased, and he winks.

The sight pisses Alex off more. It should make him glad that he brings that reaction out of Desmond, that he can coax some honest happiness from him, but it's a dull satisfaction because Alex has been watching, saw how quickly that furtive longing was swept away the moment Desmond realized he was being watched. It only cements a fact that's troubled Alex increasingly as the weeks have passed.

Desmond's a great actor. And while Alex understands the necessity, he's grown to hate it.

Confusion lights on Desmond's face, no doubt picking up on Alex's anger, the tight frown on his lips. But then someone says something and he drops his eyes after a last lingering look, sucked back into the role he's been given.

Alex decides Desmond's spent enough time denying himself.

Clinging to the darkness, it's the work of seconds to get over and across the room. It's hard to sneak up on Assassins, but Alex is in a class all his own and he doesn't hide his smirk when he steps towards the table and they all jump. He hears the metallic slide of more than a few hidden blades being activated, but he's not worried. Only Desmond regards him with something other than wary shock, expression exasperated as he looks at Alex.

"You're needed elsewhere," Alex says apropos of nothing, and he doesn't give anyone a chance to speak because he grabs Desmond by his upper arm, hauls him up, and all but drags him away.

Desmond takes a few stumbling half-steps before he gets his footing, but his eyes are only curious when he looks at Alex. He doesn't tell Alex to release him, which is pretty telling in and of itself.

"You're gonna get stabbed one day," Desmond says.

Alex almost laughs outright. "I'd love to see them try."

Desmond snorts. "What's up?" he asks easily, and Alex can't tell if he's tolerating the manhandling because it's Alex, or because he's used to it. The thought pisses him off all over again.

Alex doesn't speak until they're at the stairs, a good distance from even the most discerning Assassin ears. He twists to face Desmond, looking up because he's a step down.

"Come dance with me," he says. 

Desmond's eyes go wide and Alex gets the rare privilige of seeing Desmond surprised— _truly_ surprised.

"Uh—" Desmond blinks. "Do you even like dancing?"

"No," Alex answers frankly. "But I'm willing to make an exception."

Desmond frowns, shifts uncomfortably, eyes looking away and back like he can't decide what to do. "Why?"

"Why not?" Alex's brows furrow and he takes the one step back up, standing too close. Desmond doesn't back away, doesn't tell him to move; it's another tell, and the picture it's painting makes Alex's mouth water. "And why are you arguing? You want to. I know you do."

"I don't—" Alex stares at him and the denial dies on his lips. "...I can't." His eyes glance away to the others, wary and nervous, and suddenly Alex _gets it._

Without warning, he picks Desmond up bodily this time, marches him down the stairs and out a side door. Outside there's a deep darkness that can only be found in such a remote location and the lights from the lodge barely pierce it. Tall trees, black silhouettes against the scant moonlight, create shadows against their skin and in the night's lingering chill their breath fogs the air.

Alex sets Desmond down, pulls him close by a hand pressed firmly to his lower back, and clasps his other hand in his. This close to the lodge, the music is a soft murmur, muted but discernible, and Alex sways both their bodies in time with it.

"Better?" he asks.

Desmond moves with him because Alex isn't really giving him a choice. Despite the darkness, Alex can perfectly see his light blush, his flustered expression.

"Y-yeah," Desmond finally says. His smile is warm and grateful. "Thanks."

Alex finds it's his turn to be flustered and he fixes his gaze over Desmond's shoulder and clears his throat.

"Don't mention it."

Out of the corner of his eye, Alex sees Desmond's smile grow. But he doesn't press, just sways with Alex for a few seconds before lowering his head to rest on Alex's shoulder. He sighs, quiet but world-weary and the sound makes Alex hold him just a bit tighter.

"...How'd you know?" Desmond asks after a few minutes of silence.

"Could just tell," Alex murmurs. 

Desmond huffs. "Dangerous," he says, just as quiet. "Can't be giving myself away like that."

"No one else would be able to tell," Alex assures him, and that makes Desmond lean back, his smile wry and amused.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Desmond's tone is teasing. "You're just special, huh? No secrets from you?" 

Alex looks him dead in his eyes, not an ounce of humor in his voice. "No."

Desmond goes still and Alex stops with him, staring into his eyes, carefully watching as Desmond absorbs that.

"...Oh," he says, voice small. He looks so vulnerable and exposed in this moment, Alex feels decadent with it.

A hunger simmers just beneath his skin. The urge to pull Desmond that much closer, to claim his lips and brand his touch into every pore of Desmond's skin so he never feels alone for another _second._

But Desmond already seems ready to shake apart in his arms. He's not ready. And that's fine. When it comes to Desmond, he's got the patience of a saint. He knows the reward will just be that much sweeter, and Alex intends to savor every bit of it.

When the quiet stretches long enough to be worrisome, Alex gently takes hold of Desmond's chin.

"You good?"

"...Not sure," Desmond mutters, eyes averted. He's still blushing. 

"That's okay," Alex says. He's just glad that Desmond didn't say 'fine'. He was always _fine._ "We can just keep dancing. Sound good?"

Desmond's eyes are grateful for a whole different reason.

"Yes. _Please,"_ he agrees, in the tone of someone begging for mercy.

Alex smiles. "Whatever you want."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever write something where the entire premise _doesn't_ hinge on the mortifying ordeal of being known? No...no, I don't think I will. lol
> 
> Come say hi on Discord! @[Infamous Protocreed_Dogs](https://discord.gg/k72uA29zb3)


	8. Cronch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. This prompt _haunted_ me, for longer than I cared to think about. I struggle with nonsense words and I literally can't think of a more nonsense word than 'cronch' lol! But it ended up a blessing in disguise, because I got to try doing a dialogue-only fill, which was super fun! Hopefully, you guys enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

**Universe: Canon-Verse/Fusion  
Status: Established Relationship  
Rating: Teen & Up  
Day 8: Cronch  
POV: Third Person Limited**

* * *

"...What?"

"You know, like, cronch."

"That's not a real word."

"It is! Look it up!"

" _'Look it up.'_ On what? We're in the middle of the forest and I don't have a phone."

"Oh, yeah, I keep forgetting you're technologically-challenged."

"I'm not—"

"Here, just use mine."

"You _really_ want to be right this one time, huh?"

"Oh my god, shut up. Look it up!"

"You're such a child."

"Takes one to know one, right? And just so you know, I'm right about _tons_ of stuff!"

"Is that right?"

"Well, last night when I said you had a third round in you, I was right."

"...Stop grinning, you look like an idiot."

"Yeah, but I'm _your_ idiot. Did you find it yet?"

"How can a 'master assassin' be so impatient?"

"It's part of my charm. Well?"

" _'Cronch is an onomatopoeia. It is a slang term referring to the sound of when you bite into something loudly.'_ "

"See?"

"No, because I don't eat people."

"Semantics! The point is the _sound,_ Alex."

"This is seriously what you're thinking when I consume people?"

"Well. Yeah. Among other things."

"Like what?"

"Uh...this isn't really the place to talk about that."

"What? There's literally no one around for miles."

"Yeah, well, it's just gonna turn you on and I don't want to get fucked against a tree."

"Wow. Someone's confident."

"More like I know your kinks, freak."

"Now you _have_ to tell me."

"Nope!"

"Hm. _'Cronch is often thought of as being more satisfying than a regular crunch, better and louder._ '"

"Exactly."

"I'll concede that it certainly is satisfying to absorb the flesh and blood memories of my enemies."

"...It's really creepy when you say shit like that."

"I can live with that."

"Of course you can, you psychopath. Why haven't you said I'm right yet?"

"Because I never agreed to that."

"You're the sorest loser I've ever met, I swear to god."

"I'll say it if _you_ tell me about these 'other things' you're thinking when I'm consuming people."

 _"What?!_ No way! Why are you even still thinking about that?"

"I'm intrigued. And the fact that you're not telling me only makes me more so."

"...Suddenly, it's not worth it."

"Oh, don't be a tease, Desmond. Let's hear it."

"Ugh. _Fine._ I mean, watching you do that—I needed a pretty long adjustment period, just so we're clear."

"Understandable."

"But, you know, I'm an Assassin, Alex. Even with a 'righteous cause', my life revolves around killing, in a variety of ways."

"I'm aware. It's pretty hot."

"...S-so what I'm saying is just, you know, you kill—differently."

"I do."

"You can take a bullet to the face and stand right back up, you can lift grown men with your pinkie, you can climb _skyscrapers_ —"

"I'm very impressive, I know."

"I'm just _saying,_ as an Assassin, I can... _appreciate_ a good kill. And...I don't know, sometimes when you do it, you're just so fast, and strong, and there's blood on your face and—I don't _hate_ looking at you when you're doing your thing. I guess."

"..."

"I know it's weird—"

"No. Not at all."

"...No?"

"One could argue that you finding my strength and power appealing is chemical. Instinctual. A carried over trait from the stone age, even, and completely natural."

"Yeah, well... _those_ are some of the things I'm thinking. You know. Sometimes."

"I see..."

"...C-can you stop looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like _that,_ Jesus. We are _technically_ on a mission right now."

"We're on our way _back_ from a mission, Desmond, and we're ahead of schedule."

"Oh, no. No, no, _no."_

"What?"

"I know that tone. I _know_ what you're implying."

"I'm not _implying_ anything, Desmond. I'm only stating the facts, plain and simple."

"No! Fuck you! I'm serious, Alex, hands to yourself!"

"Now where's the fun in that?"

"Alex, I swear to god, if you fuck me against a tree, I'll never forgive you!"

"Hm. I can live with that."

"Wha—No! NO! _ALEX!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Desmond: Alex, _no._  
>  Alex: Alex, _yes!_


	9. Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely, I'm getting this html thing _down!_ This chapter features hover text! So whenever you see a part italicized that's not in English, just hover over it and the translation should appear. If it doesn't work, however, please let me know! I'll try to fix it ASAP. Enjoy!!!!

**Universe: Canon-Verse/Fusion  
Status: Established Relationship  
Rating: Teen & Up  
Day 9: Mind  
POV: Alex**

* * *

For all that his appearance suggests otherwise, Alex doesn't suffer the same failings as humanity—chiefest among them, he doesn't have to eat or sleep. While the virus doesn't need much more than a host to thrive, the body does require rest occasionally, but nothing like a full REM cycle. In the wake of his relationship with Desmond, he gets more than enough. 

Desmond conceded his inability to actually sleep, but drew the line at sacrificing the option of having Alex in his bed _entirely._ So, most nights, Alex simply holds Desmond. Typically, Alex only rests a few minutes before he's awake, but on particularly eventful days, he'll manage a few hours as he recouped. But no matter the length of time, he's always up long before Desmond.

He enjoys these times. He's always been someone pre-disposed to reflection, even before he'd ever heard of Blacklight, but with Desmond in his arms, his thoughts can't linger in anger and pain and what-ifs. 

Dana helps, too, in her own way. Amidst the chaos of his newfound status as a weapon of mass destruction, having one person who was singularly honest and accepting of everything he was had been god-sent. She'd never abandoned him, even when it had been the logical thing to do, and even now she doesn't bat an eye at Alex's casual displays of the virus, his preternatural stillness and lack of humanity. She smiles when she sees him. She never stops calling him her brother.

Dana accepts him, never for a moment mentions a 'cure' or ever asks Alex to hide who he is. Desmond, on the other hand, dares him to be more than the sum of his parts. Desmond challenged him, especially in those early days. He'd listened to Alex's claims of being nothing more than a monster, a thing that kills and consumes and becomes, and hadn't been impressed.

 _So you're just an animal?_ he'd asked. _Didn't think you were the type to give such bullshit excuses, Alex._

The challenging words had incensed him at the time, but they, along with Desmond himself, had burrowed deep under his skin, had lingered and prodded and refused to give him a moment's peace until he'd walked right back up to Desmond and demanded what right he had to judge him.

 _None,_ Desmond had responded immediately, in that annoyingly bland, frank tone he had, and then his face had gone strange there—glum, maybe. Disappointed. _I_ _just think you can do better._

There were no words to describe the frustration Desmond inspired him, something unique to him alone, and it took an _embarrassingly_ long time, and several missions, to understand why. Even worse, it was Dana who'd pointed it out, too.

 _"Tell your boyfriend I said hi,"_ she'd said. Alex had frozen, halfway out the window, expression confused and angry.

_"He's not—Desmond wouldn't—"_

He'd stuttered, _actually_ stuttered, and it had made Dana's eyes go wide.

 _"Oh, Alex,"_ she'd said, and then he'd _known._

Trying to forge a relationship had been just as frustrating as forging a friendship with Desmond— _worse,_ actually, since Desmond denied personal happiness as if the world was a hair-trigger away from imploding the second he didn't fight it. 

But like everything else Alex claimed for his own, he'd fought for it, proudly _earned_ it. That's why he enjoys these quiet nights the most, just holding Desmond as he slept. He revels in the blind trust, in the opportunity to shelter Desmond at his most vulnerable, to see his slack, peaceful features in repose and to be the only one who witnessed those brown eyes as they fluttered open in the morning, to be the reason for that heart-stopping, beautiful and sleep-tinged smile when he first saw Alex. 

Their relationship is still new, however, and there's still so much Alex doesn't know about Desmond. Even still, it's easy enough to recognize that Desmond's in the throes of a nightmare. Disheartening, but not surprising, and Alex knows the instant something changes in Desmond. 

It starts with a gradual tension as Desmond locks up in his grasp. Alex pulls back slightly, enough to see distress slowly stealing the peace from Desmond's expression. A moment later, he begins to speak, quietly, mouth hardly moving, but upset.

 _"Akh,"_ he mutters. His brow creases. _"La...min fadlik."_

Alex frowns down at him, for a moment nonplussed. He has no idea what language that is; he didn't even know Desmond _knew_ other languages.

Desmond worsens and the smell of salt hits Alex an instant before he sees the sweat beading on Desmond's forehead. 

_"Arjuu almaädhira,"_ he says, sounding _incredibly_ pained. His fists clench in the blankets as his head starts to roll in a lethargic shake of denial. _ "Ana 'ahmik."_ Desmond shakes his head harder and a tear spills over his cheek. _"La 'astatie..."_

He's seen enough. Alex rises and pulls Desmond up with him, cradled against his chest. He gives his shoulder a light shake. 

"Desmond, wake up. _Desmond."_

Desmond shudders, the breath rattling in his chest before finally leaving him in a great, gasping inhale. He sounds like he's drowning and when he blinks open his eyes, they glow a bright gold, unfocused and so shaken Alex's heart _lurches_ in his chest.

He mumbles something else in that strange language, eyes looking straight past Alex. His hands come up, trembling, to cradle Alex's face. His thumbs run across Alex's cheeks, unfocused eyes roving over his features. More tears spill down his cheeks.

"What are you seeing, Desmond?" Alex asks, deeply unsettled. He recognizes the glow as an effect of the Apple Desmond's told him about, an ancient artifact that had fused with Desmond long before they'd met. But Desmond only used his abilities when the need was dire, so why...?

Desmond doesn't answer him. He pulls himself closer and presses his forehead to Alex's.

 _"Raja 'urjuk,"_ he pleads and the punched-out rawness of his voice is too much.

"DESMOND." Alex seizes him by the shoulders, glares at him hard in the eyes, and hopes his fear isn't obvious. _"Snap out of it._ It's me, Alex."

Desmond's eyes are still glowing, but he starts to frown. 

Encouraging, Alex rubs Desmond's upper arms. "That's right," he says quietly. "Come back to me. It's all right. Everything's all right."

Desmond winces, and the gold in his eyes begins to dim. 

"My...my fault," he whispers. He's still crying, but he seems distanced from it, as if he doesn't even notice it. "It's my fault..."

"What is? What, Desmond?"

"He's dead." Desmond's face crumples anew; the glow surges. "Because of me—I did not see—I was too-too late— _la-laqad matuu wahadha khata'ay—"_

 _Fuck._ He's losing him to— _whatever_ this is.

 _"No."_ Alex cradles Desmond's face, roughly rubs away the tears on his face as he forces Desmond to _look_ at him. "Stay with _me,_ Desmond."

Desmond's forehead creases and he stares at Alex with effort, panting. "I—I _can't—"_

"You _can,_ Desmond. Focus on me."

Recognition slowly bleeds onto Desmond's face and the eery, golden glow begins to fade again, this time in earnest.

"...Alex?"

"Yeah." Alex's shoulders sag in relief. "It's me."

Desmond's eyes slide shut and he shudders. His hands come up and encircle Alex's wrists and he grips him there, hard, as he catches his breath.

 _"F-Fuck,"_ he murmurs, shaken. "Sorry. _God,_ sorry." When he opens his eyes again, they're a reassuring dark brown. "How—How bad was I?"

Alex isn't sure how to answer that. "You were speaking some other language. I don't think you recognized me, at first."

Desmond grimaces. "That—yeah, that sounds right. Did I—I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Hurt _him?_ The idea would be laughable if not for how plainly worried Desmond looks. 

"No. You didn't hurt me."

"Okay." Desmond licks his lips. He looks seconds away from breaking down entirely. "Good. That's—good."

He's trying his best to sound steady, but he looks fucking _awful._ "Are you okay?"

Desmond doesn't look at him. There's something shamed and scared about him that's more obvious the longer Alex stares, visible in his too-pale skin, the way he clings to Alex's wrists yet can't manage to meet his eyes. He's still shaking. "No. No, I'm not."

Without another word, Alex wraps his arms around Desmond and holds him close. Desmond's taught him a lot about touch in the short time they've been together, so he knows to rub his back in slow, soothing passes, fingers splayed wide.

It's effective. Desmond sinks into him immediately and clings to Alex like he's a life raft amidst a stormy sea. He rubs his face against his chest and Alex can hear the short, gasping breaths he heaves.

"You're okay," Alex says quietly. He presses his lips to Desmond's head and speaks against his hair. "You're okay."

Questions burn the back of his tongue, but Alex doesn't voice them, not when Desmond's so rattled. Tortured and hunted, under heavy bullet rain and outnumbered, still, Alex has _never_ seen Desmond like this, and he can admit it's calming him, too, to simply hold Desmond close like this and breathe. If Desmond needed time, Alex would give it to him. He'd sit here and guard him against nightmares for an eternity if need be.

It doesn't come to that, however. After a while, Desmond gathers himself. The trembling eases and his breaths come easier, smoother. But he doesn't move from the cradle of Alex's arms. He rests his head against Alex's shoulder.

"Scared you off yet?"

Alex snorts. "You wish." 

Desmond huffs. There's another moment of quiet, and then he says, "It's okay. You can ask."

Alex exhales through his nose and tightens his grip. He doesn't even pretend to hesitate, too worried and alarmed by what he's seen. "What _was_ that Desmond?"

"The Bleeding Effect," he says, tired. "It's a side-effect of the animus."

Alex's brow furrows, unseen over Desmond's head. He knew about the animus, obviously, but this is the first time he's hearing anything about _side-effects._

"The Bleeding Effect?"

"Yup," Desmond says with false nonchalance. "Spend too much time deep-diving into memories and it bleeds over. Your brain can't tell _you_ from _them_ until there isn't any difference anymore."

 _What the_ _fuck?_

Desmond's touch comes back, running up and down his side. 

"It's okay," Desmond mutters, and Alex realizes he'd started squeezing Desmond, _crushing_ him closer, and he eases up. "I'm a lot better than I used to be. I'm not even drawing pictures on the wall with my own blood or anything," he joked.

The specific-ness of that example sets his teeth on edge. "Is that a possibility?"

Desmond pauses, a worrying sign. "Uh. Yeah. I knew someone that happened to..." He sighs. "It was a shitty joke."

"Yes," Alex squeezes him again, "It was."

"Sorry."

Alex sighs. Usually, he appreciates Desmond's morbid sense of humor. But not right now.

"Does this happen a lot?"

"No. Sort of. Not really? I really _do_ have it under control, it just—sometimes it sneaks up on me."

"What...what am I supposed to do?" There's an embarrassing thread of concern in his voice, but it can't be held back. He's never felt so useless. "If that happens again, what should I do?"

Desmond keeps up the caress and it suddenly feels like _Alex_ is the one being soothed. 

"You were perfect, actually," Desmond reassures. "Saying my name, making me focus on the present—I need that, to come back."

Alex blows out a half-relieved, half-worried breath. "Okay. I can do that."

"Thanks. It's funny. Usually, after a Bleed, I end up drinking. But this is better," and he pats Alex for emphasis. "Way better."

Alex pushes Desmond away, just a few inches so they can see each other. Desmond's eyes are wet and red-rimmed, but happy. The sight is even more reassuring than holding him.

Alex puts a hand on the back of Desmond's neck and brings their lips together in a slow, savoring kiss and can feel it settling the agitated clench in his chest, can feel the reassurance settling Desmond, too, as he relaxes into the touch.

"Get used to it," Alex mutters in the space between their kisses, and Desmond smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so take all that Arabic with a grain of salt. Some of it was straight from Google Translate (which is iffy at best) and some of it was from looking up common Arabic phrases that I copy-pasted. Resources for this language were surprisingly scarce—at least for me. If this is your native language and you have some more accurate translations, I am _all ears!_
> 
> You guys _knew_ this one was coming, I'm sure, lol. I mean, with this prompt, and the fact that it's _Desmond_ , the Bleeding Effect was going to come up sooner or later, right? And I could NOT resist some Altair angst! For those of you who may not know, Des was bleeding as Altair **||SPOILERS!!!||** when Abbas stages a coup in Masyaf and kills everyone loyal to Altair—including Malik. I read the novel, but I can't recall if it was in Revelations or not, but Altair actually finds Malik's body, BEHEADED either by Abbas himself or by his order, and there's a scene where he's holding his head, so full of regret for how things played out. I'm pretty sure Malik was tortured before then, too, because Altair finds him in a cell and he's all emaciated and stuff. Which. wHY GOD Malik is BAE why would you DO THAT to him, Ubi?!!??? I mean, it happened once he and Altair were both old men, so he got to live a long life, but STILL. They did him so dirty.
> 
> Again, it's been a while since I read the book, but I'm pretty sure most of that is accurate, lol. I still have the emotional scars...
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and feel free to drop a comment, even if it's just to say: lol  
> I live for the validation!!! See ya next Sunday! (づ￣ ³￣)づ


	10. Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Sunday, aka Gay Day, since I've apparently decided to post Gays Only on this holy day of rest and remembrance lolol.  
> 〜(꒪꒳꒪)〜

**Universe: Corporate AU  
Status: Established Relationship  
Rating: Teen & Up  
Day 10: Flame  
POV: Desmond**

* * *

"That wouldn't be _Desmond Miles_ I see, would it?"

Surprised, Desmond looked up from the paperwork scattered across his desk. He straightened in a quick motion, a bewildered smile on his lips.

_"Clay?"_

Clay Kaczmarek grinned and it was like no time had passed at all—wide, sly, and slightly crooked. Just as charming as Desmond remembered.

"I'm glad you remembered me, Mr. Bigshot CEO," Clay laughed. He stepped fully into the room and shut the door before sweeping close. Desmond rose and met him halfway and they hugged briefly. Clay didn't let him get far, one hand clapping his shoulder, the other keeping Desmond close by a grip at the back of his head. Clay was ever the tactile one. "Look at you! Leading the company, even in a suit! Damn, I leave the country for a year and suddenly you get _ambitious."_

Desmond laughed. "More like I grew up, maybe. But hey, how about you?" He nudged Clay back, grinning in excitement. "Running your own robotics company? That's amazing! But what are you doing back here? I thought you were in Tokyo?"

 _"Was,_ Desmond, _was._ But you know me, never could stick to one place for long. Opportunity's calling and I live to find it."

Desmond shook his head. "Don't I know it."

A step back broke Clay's hold and Desmond gestured to his desk, inviting Clay to take a seat opposite as he resumed his own. Clay took it as a friendly suggestion and instead circled the desk with him to perch on the edge at Desmond's side. He always was one for acknowledging the socially acceptable option and gleefully ignoring it.

 _God,_ Desmond had missed him. The shit they'd gotten up to...

"So, what brings you by? Other than how much you missed me, obviously," Desmond teased.

Clay nudged him with a leg, smirking. "Guess I had to see it for myself. When I heard Desmond Miles, _my_ Desmond, finally stopped running away from Daddy and took over Creed Industries, well," Clay threw up his palms, "I thought I was still high or something."

"Yeah," Desmond sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm still coming to terms with it, honestly." He could see the questions bubbling to the surface of Clay's lips, shining from his endlessly curious eyes, and Desmond tried to shut them down with the fewest sentences possible, "But we can't stay free forever, right?"

He was making it grimmer than it was, in truth. It hadn't been easy, coming back to his father, enduring his lectures and censure and hawk-eyed, ever-critical gaze as he molded Desmond into the perfect heir. But it had been worth it in the end. He needed the title and he needed the name behind him. He had things he wanted now, people he wanted to protect. It was a hard pill to swallow, realizing he could only achieve _real_ results by crawling back home, but he'd done it. And now he could stand amongst the people he loved, could support himself without having to rely on them to protect _him._

It was worth all the awkward family reunions in the world.

"Do you hear the words coming out of your mouth?" Clay shook his head, a strand of dirty-blonde hair falling into his eyes. "You _have_ changed."

Desmond shrugged. "We all have to some time."

"Nah. Not me." Clay leaned back with a hand to brace him against the desk, kicking his designer shoes idly. "I'm going to stay a filthy rich, devilishly handsome genius until the day I die."

Desmond raised his hands in surrender. "Of course. I was referring to us mere mortals, obviously."

Talk moved to Clay, to his work and his travels. He seemed happy to expound and Desmond was happy to let him. Opportunities to procrastinate work didn't come often and besides that, Clay was an old friend. Desmond always made time for those.

They were interrupted sometime later when his desk phone beeped. The intercom crackled to life a second later. 

_"Mr. Miles?"_ It was his secretary, an asshole name Daniel Cross. Desmond knew all about the beef between Daniel and his father and wasn't too proud that he wouldn't admit he'd hired him half because of that reason alone. Plus, he had a special brand of dickish sarcasm that Desmond found hilarious. _"It's your first line. Want it, or...?"_

Desmond pressed the speaker button. "Yeah, I've got time. Thanks."

_"Yeah, yeah."_

Desmond leaned back in his seat to find Clay watching him.

"This look suits you," Clay said. He seemed thoughtful when Desmond looked back at him, that same sly smile on his lips. He didn't have to reach far to touch and his fingers curled under Desmond's chin, tilted his head up. "It's really fuckin' hot, actually. Wanna hook up, just like old times?"

Desmond blinked, for a moment taken aback—despite their past, this was the _last_ thing he'd expected Clay to ask. The offer made his stomach churn and he fought hard not to show anything other than exasperation. 

"Not happening," Desmond said with wry flatness. Clay made a wounded noise.

"Oh, come on, you didn't even _think_ about it." He leaned a little closer, eye falling to half-mast. "It was good before, yeah? We used to have a _lot_ of fun..."

The door swung open hard enough to hit the wall and they both flinched. Clay's hand fell away as they both looked up and the moment he caught sight of the visitor, Desmond perked, smiling.

"Alex!" It was a near thing, disguising the relief in his voice, but he managed.

Alex stood there in a sleek black suit, no tie, dark hair swept back from his face. Cool-eyed, he looked powerful and untouchable, like he didn't see anything other than where he was going and didn't care if he stepped on you to do it. 

So, the way he usually looked. 

Behind him, Daniel leaned far across his desk, peeking around Alex's side and into the doorway with a wide, shit-eating grin. Judging by the force of the door opening and Alex's blank expression, Desmond could guess what he'd told him. He shot Daniel a furtive, dirty look. Daniel grinned beatifically and raised a middle finger.

_He's so lucky I think that's funny._

"Hey," Alex said simply, eyes on Desmond. Whatever he saw on his face made him come close, although he glanced frostily at Clay when he drew near. 

_"Move,"_ he ordered, voice cold.

Clay's eyebrows flew up. 

"Des..." he said slowly. Alex's face twitched at the nickname and Clay saw it; blood in the water. His smile grew, this one devious. His voice turned lilting. "Who's your angry friend?"

Desmond withheld a sigh, resigned to watching a pissing match without any regard to the fact that he liked being able to _use_ his office.

"Alex, this is Clay Kaczmarek," _An old flame,_ he wisely didn't say. "An old friend," he introduced instead with a wave. "Clay, this is Alex Mercer. My boyfriend."

The eyebrows climbed higher, but rather than cowed, Clay seemed delighted by the situation.

"Boyfriend!" Clay faced Desmond again, face lit up like a proud parent. The twinkle in his eye betrayed him, however, making it clear to anyone who knew him that he was being obnoxious on purpose. "Desmond, you're going _steady?_ My, you _have_ changed! How tragic for the rest of us that you're off the market..." Clay tilted his head. _"Are_ you off the market? Or is this more of an open thing?" he asked, pointing between the two of them. "Say it's an open thing. Otherwise, it's even _more_ tragic for those of us who've _had_ you—"

"He's _off_ the market," Alex interrupted. The Arctic was warmer than his tone. 

Alex drew even with the side of the desk, eyes like flint as he stared Clay down like he was something particularly offensive he'd scraped off his shoe. 

_"Move,"_ he repeated.

Desmond half-expected Clay to stay just to rile Alex up more, but he was relieved when Clay stood instead, palms raised.

"Hey, gotta piss on your territory, I get it." Clay rose and neatly side-stepped Alex, either not noticing or uncaring of the piercing, fierce glare Alex kept trained on him. Desmond had to commend him; there weren't a lot of people who could endure that look and not be affected. 

Clay slipped his hands into his pockets and threw a wink over his shoulder.

"I'll be in touch, Desmond," Clay promised. From the open door, they could see Clay gesturing to where Daniel was probably playing a game on his phone. "Cross! _Buddy._ Walk me out, let me pump you for information."

Alex strode away, shut the door, locked it, and came back. He rounded the desk, swung Desmond's chair to face him, and pressed a firm, searing kiss to his lips.

Desmond didn't even try to fight it, relaxing into the touch on instinct. There was no one in his life who'd been such a rock like Alex. His touch was exactly what he needed.

Alex took his time, licking into his mouth, pressing close over and over again until Desmond was breathless. When he finally stopped, it was only to pull Desmond out of his seat and over to the small couch against the wall. Desmond didn't fight this either, let himself be arranged as Alex wanted until he was half-draped across his lap with Alex's hand rubbing up and down his back. 

"What's wrong?" Alex asked. 

A wry smile twitched on his lips. He shifted his elbow on the back of the couch, temple resting on his fist.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" After all, _Desmond_ wasn't the one who'd walked in on his boyfriend with an ex.

Alex wouldn't let him deflect, if his flat expression told him anything. He tapped Desmond's nose. "You looked sad."

Desmond's mouth twisted. He looked away. "I...wasn't, really. Just...he brought up memories."

"Memories of what?"

It was pretty pathetic, but there was no point trying to avoid the question. Well, he hadn't scared Alex off yet.

"Clay...we were really close, once upon a time," he explained slowly, eyes going distant. "We both lived in the moment, hated our dads, and made every stupid choice we could because we didn't want to think about the future. We only had each other. And then we started hooking up. Which was fine, it's not like I'd never hooked up with people before. But I...ended up having feelings for him." To this day, Desmond still berated himself for it. He'd _known_ better. "I never said anything, but it didn't matter. He got bored. He left. End of story."

Alex hummed. "Sounds like an asshole."

That revived a ghost of a smile onto Desmond's lips. "I never held it against him. Clay never committed to anything for long, I knew that going in. I guess when he offered again it brought back all those feelings of inadequacy. But!" Desmond patted Alex's chest, his smile growing a little more genuine. "That's all in the past. It's dumb to focus on it."

"There are a lot of words that describe you, but 'inadequate' isn't one of them," Alex said. "I'm glad he's a blind idiot. Means I get you all to myself."

Desmond knew his face was doing something sickeningly fond, but he couldn't help it. He stroked Alex's cheek and shifted forward, initiating a kiss that was long, languid, and worked wonders to settle the bruised feeling that lingered in his chest. Alex held him back tightly, kissed back like he was starved for it even after all this time they'd been together. Desmond smiled into the kiss.

"Yeah, you do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was _so much_ fun to write! It wasn't intentional, but all my faves ended up in this one, so it's the prompt/day that I come back to the most. I feel like a fond, doting parent lol. Just—Clay and Daniel, man. Not enough fics feature them! I try to sprinkle them in wherever possible because they are so precious to me. Pretty soon, I'm gonna have you guys SICK of them!
> 
> (update! If you guys didn't know, after the posting of this chapter, I'm going on hiatus! If you want more info about it, check the end notes of my other Cross Our Hearts fic.)
> 
> Thanks for reading! And drop a comment, if you're so inclined~ (￣▽￣)ゞ


	11. Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA! You guys really thought I was gone for good, didn't ya?! Jokes on you, I'm backkkkk lol

**Universe: Canon-Verse/Fusion  
Status: Pre-Relationship  
Rating: Teen & Up  
Day 11: Eyes  
POV: Desmond**

* * *

Desmond's used to people watching him, but it's never really about _him._ It's more about what he can do, what they're getting _through_ him. People look at him, but their gazes quickly slide past.

It's how Desmond prefers it, honestly. Pretending to be fine all the time is _exhausting,_ but he's making it through, day by day, if only because he only has to pretend in spurts. In the morning, during debriefs, when he's getting intel during a mission—a few minutes, _tops,_ that he has to smile and quip and pretend he's a stable adult. No biggie.

But Alex. But _Alex._

He's different. _Never,_ not from the moment they met, did Alex ever take what he said at face value. His gaze lingers, probing, observing Desmond's every smile and shrug and eye roll like he's meticulously cataloging it all. It makes Desmond's skin crawl, the thought of being seen like that. 

But he learns soon enough that's just who Alex is. He's suffered a few betrayals himself because he neglected to notice the signs, so it makes sense that he's vigilant now.

And if that's where it ended, they wouldn't have a problem. But the thing is, Alex doesn't _stop._

Desmond's watched him in turn, seen Alex make the transition from wary scrutiny to dismissive acceptance. Alex has an observation period, and then he moves on, confident he understands what motivates a person, what makes them tick. Desmond waits, and waits, and _waits_ for Alex to reach that point with him—futilely.

It's constant. During missions, his eyes will catch on Alex's across the room, both of them in the middle of a kill. Desmond will duck beneath his hood, pray that hollow, empty feeling that often seizes him during an assassination isn't obvious. 

Desmond will drape himself over Shaun's computer, harassing him for attention as he subtly nudges some damn food near him because he hasn't taken a break in _hours,_ and he'll glance up to find Alex's eyes on him, watching as Desmond forces a light laugh as he slinks away from a particularly sharp insult, and he'll panic, thinking, _Fuck. Don't look. I'm fine. I'm fine._

It happens when Desmond thinks he's alone, sitting on the tallest roof he can find or on the training grounds of their latest hideout. He doesn't know someone's around, so he doesn't know to hide the frustration, the mourning that will overcome him randomly, the lingering, jagged emptiness that threatens to tear itself free from the center of his chest. Then he'll turn, and Alex will be there, and Desmond will slap on a smile, a friendly greeting, or a blase hint to warn a guy, but he always curses himself for forgetting that all Alex _does_ is prowl, that he doesn't _need_ to sleep.

The very first time he'd noticed it, when they'd been gathered to discuss their next move against Abstergo and Blackwatch alike, he'd caught Alex's eyes on him. He'd done what anyone would—looked back pointedly with a raised brow that said, _Do you mind?_

Alex, the cocky asshole, had just _smirked._ Sunk back in his seat, arms crossed. He hadn't so much as blinked and _Desmond_ had been the one to finally drop his eyes, _mortified_ to feel himself blushing, fervently thinking, _What the fuck?!_

It was soon after that incident that they'd begun getting assigned more and more missions together, and Alex—he's a great guy, really. Weird, for sure, and desperately in need of a few lessons in tact, but he's not a bad person. He fights for justice, despite how much pain he's suffered, and he wants to do good, to _be_ good. Desmond gets it, maybe better than most. And despite himself, they become friends. It's hard at first, and then it's easy, once Alex decides to let his barriers down long enough to let him in. They reach something of an equilibrium, learning to trust each other in a fight and relax around each other at rest, and it's good. Almost perfect, really, to have someone so firmly in his corner.

But through it all, Alex still doesn't stop _watching_ him. It's worse now, though, because they spend more time alone now—a consequence of friendship. Desmond will talk to fill the silence, he'll get up and with some excuse to distance himself, to distract himself from the sensation of Alex's calculating eyes on him, but it barely helps. 

It all comes to a head at Alex's apartment. Desmond should _technically_ be with his fellow Assassins at their base, but when Alex had offered him his place to crash after their run through Manhattan, citing the late hour and the distance, he can't resist. Space from HQ sounds heavenly.

 _I'm a fucking idiot._ If he'd used his brain for _once,_ he wouldn't be in this situation, sitting on Alex's couch, pretending he can't feel that focused, burning gaze on him right now. 

Desmond can barely remember what he'd even been talking about. His dad, he thinks, how their latest conversation had gone, but beneath the force of Alex's steady gaze, he falters, the words drying up in his throat. His face feels warm. 

Alex notices immediately, of course, because he hasn't so much as blinked in the last few— _months,_ it feels like.

"Everything all right?" he asks in that rough, deep voice. 

Desmond resists the urge to swallow, knowing that with Alex's superhuman senses, he'll notice. 

"Y-yeah. Yep. Just great." He rubs at his arm, glances at the window. "It's getting pretty late, I should probably—"

"You seem flustered, Desmond."

There's a definite smugness to his tone and Desmond glances at him quickly and away, quietly fuming. _God, he's an asshole._

"Do I? Weird. I feel fine."

Alex moves closer, plants his elbows on his knees so he can lean far enough to catch Desmond's eyes. "Is that right?"

"Yep," Desmond responds, terse. 

"You must be sick, then. Your skin's flushed."

Desmond runs a tired hand over his absolutely blushing face. 

"No, it's not," he mumbles into his palm, and Alex chuckles. Desmond sighs and decides, _fuck it._ This is the closest they've come to acknowledging it, he might as well take the plunge. 

He lets his hand fall but absolutely refuses to face Alex. He says, quietly, "You're always doing that..."

"What?"

"Staring. At me."

"Ah." Not a denial.

"Why?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Alex shrug. "You're an interesting guy."

Desmond huffs. "I'm really not, Alex."

"I beg to differ."

"Okay—well—can you stop? It's driving me crazy and I _really_ don't need any help in that department."

There's a pause, and then Alex shifts even closer, until their legs bump and Desmond's soft, in-drawn breath echoes, deafening, in the quiet. 

Mercifully, Alex doesn't mention it. Instead, he says, "You always joke when you feel uncomfortable."

"It's a defense mechanism. I wasn't hugged a lot as a child."

"Case in point. Does it really bother you that much?" he presses. "Me watching you?"

"It just—it's weird." Desmond leans back against the couch and crosses his arms. "I don't understand it."

"Maybe I just like looking at you."

Desmond startles, meets Alex's eyes out of pure shock. Alex gazes right back at him, hands clasped, calm and serious as ever. He shows no signs of taking it back and that—that's a lot to absorb. _Too_ much.

Desmond tears his eyes away, swallows and doesn't care that Alex sees it and probably understands why he's was nervous. 

"I, uh...um." He can't form a single coherent thought. "I...I think I should leave."

He doesn't even make it halfway off the couch before Alex snatches his wrist and pulls him right back down. "Is it so crazy, the thought that someone might look at you and not want to look away?"

Desmond shivers, tries not to focus on the burning, steel grip Alex has on his upper arm. "I—I don't—"

With insulting ease, Alex drags him close, knees falling on either side of Alex's waist, and Desmond gasps, loud and embarrassing.

"What's wrong with looking, huh?" Alex asks, cool eyes burrowing into his. His hands fall to Desmond's waist, holds him there with a firm possessiveness that makes his mouth dry. "No harm, right?"

"Yeah, r-right," Desmond manages, red all over. His self-preservation instincts keep him looking _everywhere_ but Alex. "I feel like I'm gonna die, here," he mutters, flustered.

Alex's mouth curls in a small, dark smile. His palms, burning hot, slowly slide down to Desmond's thighs where he's straddled. 

"You're stronger than that," he assures. "I think you can take it."

Desmond gives up on ever having a normal temperature again. "Al—Alex."

"Mm?"

"What—what is this? What are you—?"

"Isn't it obvious?" His lips brush Desmond's ear, breath hot against the sensitive skin. "Why do you _think_ I was watching you?"

 _Oh, fuck._ Desmond hates how hot that is, hates _himself_ for thinking that.

"Alex—you can't—"

"Why not? Because you might like it?" Alex's lips trace a line from the hollow behind his ear to his neck. He starts pressing slow, lingering, _firm_ kisses against the skin there and Desmond shudders, violently, biting his lip against the urge to do something embarrassing, like _moan_ or some shit. "I'm willing to take that risk."

But Desmond isn't. Panic makes his heart throb in his throat and the sharp pleasure from Alex's touch is too much, overwhelming enough he's worried he'll lose himself completely.

Desmond braces his hands on Alex's shoulders, pushes. "Alex, stop." 

Alex sighs, put-out, but to his credit, he does stop. He leans back against the couch and watches Desmond with a look of exaggeratingly mild patience. When Desmond tries to shift off of him, he tightens his grip on Desmond's hips.

"Look, Alex." Desmond rubs his face. "I don't know what this is, if you're bored or something, but—"

His only warning is the hot clamp of a hand around the back of his neck, the flash of Alex's dark eyes—and then he's being pulled down and being kissed within an inch of his life.

Desmond isn't sure which is sadder: the fact that Alex managed to grab him despite being directly in Desmond's sight, or the fact that he doesn't even _try_ to fight it.

He could; for all that Alex seemed determined to make him forget his own _name_ from the sudden force of his kiss, Desmond could easily break it. But his dumb, traitorous heart leaps in his chest and his stupider, even _more_ disloyal body only hesitates for the barest second before he's returning it.

Part of him is logical about it: who knows the next time he'll have the chance to be this close to someone? Why not enjoy this _one_ touch, this one time?

When he thinks about it that way, it makes sense. But mostly, he knows it's simply because he really is just _that_ lonely and pathetic. Pushing Alex away—he's not physically _capable_ of it. 

It's not like it's hard to fall into Alex's touch, anyway. Alex definitely knows what he's doing here, and between the firm hold on his neck, the bruising, relentless press of Alex's lips as he steals every breath Desmond manages to take, and the way Alex drags him just that much closer—well, Desmond could do a lot worse as far as one-off make-outs go, that's for sure.

Spurred by the thought of this being the last time he'll be touched this way, Desmond lets himself reciprocate a little more. Hesitantly, he sets a palm on Alex's upper arm. When Alex doesn't immediately recoil in disgust, his other arm slips around Alex's shoulders, presses his chest tighter to him. The movement shifts him up, enough so that Desmond has to dip his head a little further to keep their lips intact, and Alex makes this sound—a low, rumbling sound of approval, almost like a _growl,_ and it makes Desmond flush hotter as desire swoops low in his belly.

 _Jesus._ Why is Alex so _good_ at this? Why is Desmond so _easy?_

Desmond isn't sure how long they spend in that embrace, just feeling each other, but eventually the small snatches of air he's sneaking don't cut it anymore. Desmond breaks the kiss with a gasp, panting, eyes fluttering open just the barest bit, thinking to get his bearings and to let reality reassert himself.

He's wholly unprepared for the first thing he sees to be Alex's eyes, simmering with desire, focused unerringly on Desmond.

Desmond goes rigid. Reflexively—and overwhelmed with acute embarrassment—Desmond slaps a hand over Alex's eyes and sags against him, bright red and _mortified_ and a little exasperated.

"Dude, you have to _stop_ with the fucking staring." God, just the thought that Alex hadn't looked away this whole time—Desmond really _will_ have a heart attack at this rate.

Beneath his hand, he can feel Alex's lips curl into a smirk. Desmond reluctantly allows his hand to be tugged away but he only meets Alex's eyes for a split second before he has to cast his own away. 

"With this kind of incentive?" Alex rubs his thumb absently against the skin of Desmond's neck, in a move so casually possessive it makes Desmond shiver. Alex's smirk grows and Desmond realizes he's fucked. "Not happening."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, there aren't too many mistakes, but I literally just tried to proofread one last time and my brain shut off. I'm so sick of looking at this chapter lol. I'm updating both Cross Our Hearts today, but after this we'll go back to our regularly scheduled Thursday/Sunday updates.
> 
> Thanks for reading! And if you're new to the series, thanks again!!!!


	12. Sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up, everyone? Thanks so much for reading this little series, it means a lot! 🥰

**Universe: Canon-Verse/Fusion  
Status: Established Relationship  
Rating: General  
Day 12: Sick  
POV: Desmond**

* * *

The doctor told Desmond that he was sick, but he didn't _feel_ sick. Not anymore.

Now, before, _before_ he was sure he was _dying._ His father certainly seemed to think so, Rebecca and Shaun, too. The pep talks and assurances that he'd eventually recover, be back on the streets to wreak hell on the templars—all of that talk slowly fell away. Confined to his sick-bed, he'd watched the hope fade from their eyes, saw the poorly masked grief and pity shine bright behind tears held valiantly back. They'd hold his hands, or mop his face of the fever-sweats, or hold him down when he'd seize, comforting, caring, attentive—but Desmond could see it. They'd mourned him before they'd even put him in the ground.

But even as his body felt like fire was burning him from the inside out, he noticed the changes. Slowly, his sight became clearer. His hearing, sharper. His mind raced and conversations were almost dull at times, thoughts leaping ahead of any discussion, impatiently waiting for the other person to catch up to him. 

He was changing without understanding the cause, but in the back of his mind, he wondered. He suspected. And then, one night, he understood.

Without any preamble, he awoke. He turned his head to see the clock on the bedside table: 01:13

There was no pain when he sat up against the headboard. Gone was the fever, the chills, the bone-deep ache of muscles that tore and stretched and atrophied. His breaths came deep and easy, his head clear for the first time in _weeks._

It went beyond worrying that he felt better so abruptly. 

Desmond stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers. Something pulsed just beneath the skin, aching to be released. An energy. The urge to get up and race through the night was overwhelming.

Shaun was over at the far side of the room, uncomfortably slumped on a couch. Desmond felt bad for him, forced to sit at the bedside of someone he only somewhat tolerated. There must be a rotation so he was never alone.

Desmond hesitated, staring at Shaun's slack form. What would he even say? _Hey, Shaun, I'm all better now, wanna crash in your own bed?_ That was sure to go over well. Just imagining the fuss was making his head hurt.

He was saved the ordeal of making a decision by the door clicking open. It swung open soundlessly, but Desmond already knew who it was.

Alex stepped into the room as casual as can be, hands tucked into his pocket, posture relaxed. The only thing that betrayed him were his burning blue eyes, zeroing in on Desmond, drinking him in with an intensity that Desmond recognized.

It was the same way Alex had looked at him the few times he'd been allowed to visit. Despite being a couple, William had never approved of Alex and had used Desmond's illness as a way to keep him away, citing Desmond's need for rest and already having more than enough people to play nursemaid. Desmond had wanted to protest but had been too weak. And Alex, normally not one to take any sort of slight, had accepted the limited visits easily. That alone had kept Desmond from pressing the issue, confused but trusting Alex must have had his reasons.

The few times Alex _had_ been to see him, he hadn't said much. Just watched Desmond's decline silently, almost _emotionlessly,_ face unreadable. There had never been the despair and helpless anger that he'd seen in the others, no acceptance of his imminent death. Alex had just been there, supporting, categorizing every shiver, every cough, every word uttered in the throes of delirium. The most emotion Desmond could discern from him was something odd that he'd rarely seen on his face, something Desmond had troubled placing in his addled state.

But now Alex met Desmond's gaze, stopping short of his bed. Wary. Unsure. Watching.

 _Guilty._ Alex was guilty.

Desmond...he'd known. He'd _known._ But being confronted with the reality was harder than he'd expected.

Desmond forced his body lax, looked up at Alex with a clear, blank gaze.

"What did you do to me?" he asked.

Alex tensed slightly, indiscernible to the naked eye, perhaps, but not to Desmond. Not now.

Alex licked his lips. "I think you know."

Desmond's heart was racing, but it didn't show in his face or his body. "I want you to say it anyway."

Those burning eyes dropped for a moment, lips twisted in a grimace. Alex braced himself, hands coming to rest at his sides, fisted.

"I infected you with the Blacklight Virus," he confessed. His eyes rose, met Desmond's unflinchingly. "You're like me now."

Now it was _Desmond_ who couldn't meet his eyes. He raised a shaking hand to his forehead, pressed it there as a slow, shuddering breath left his body.

 _Fuck. FUCK._ Once Alex said the words, it was out there in the world. Like it hadn't been _real_ until then. He hadn't let himself fully believe until this moment. Desmond swallowed painfully against a dry throat.

"...Why?" his voice was a thread of sound. A few beats passed, and he demanded, firmer, agitated, _"Why?"_

The sound of footsteps shuffling closer. "I can't..." Alex seemed to be struggling for once. Gone was the cool apathy that practically defined him. Sharp anger and frustration bled into his tone. Helplessness. "I can't lose you, Desmond. I...I _can't."_

The words affected him but Desmond forced away the stab of empathy. He gritted his teeth.

"You had _no right."_ He screwed his eyes shut. His life was...it was over. There was no getting around that fact. Alex had killed him, more or less. Already, he could feel it. The power and strength, the sharpness of senses that far surpassed a human's.

The thought made him suck in a breath. He wasn't human anymore.

"No. I didn't. But I did it anyway." 

Alex seemed uninterested in excuses, in pleading his case. The way he seemed to almost be _goading_ Desmond into censuring him made him angrier than anything else.

The worst part was that Alex had warned him in a way. There'd been a mission not too long ago, no more dangerous than the hundreds of others he'd taken. But some bad luck, a dumb mistake, and it had nearly cost him his life.

It happened to every Assassin. Some of them didn't even make it back and Desmond had counted himself lucky. Alex, however, hadn't been nearly so lassiez-faire. Desmond could perfectly remember the banked emotion, the silent, desperate fury.

"It's not happening again," he'd sworn softly, clutching Desmond's hand. He seemed to be staring straight through him. "I won't let it."

Desmond buried his face in his hands; he couldn't look at Alex.

He was furious, but he still loved Alex, too. He understood why he'd done it. He'd carried his fair share of guilt when he'd come to understand that Alex would outlive him, that he was forcing Alex to eventually watch him die, either from templars or natural causes. Alex had confessed in the dark, clutching him tight, of his fear, the pit of despair that loomed when he contemplated an endless existence amongst humanity, forever abhorred and set apart.

 _Of course_ Desmond had thought about it. Willingly getting infected, saving Alex from that bleak future. But so many things made him wrestle with the idea. The loss of his humanity, for one, although that fell very far down on the list; he'd lost so much of himself to the Animus he sometimes already felt like something less than human.

But he and Alex, this thing they'd found in one another was intense, deep, strong—but new. So new. Who was to say they'd even be the same people or feel the same way in a few months? A year? What if it was a mistake? And that was before the subject of mortality came into play. Desmond had researched the virus. A _ninety-nine point nine_ percent mortality rate. It was almost certain death.

 _Very_ almost, apparently.

"...I don't even know what to say," Desmond said. So many emotions warred within him, anger, elation, despair, fear. Love. One triggered the other until he was a spiraling, upset mess. He looked up, let Alex see all of that in his face. "You took my choice."

Alex swept close, that same desperate shine to his eyes, there in how he crowded Desmond close, gripping his upper arms, the way his eyes roamed his face, starved for more contact but just barely holding back.

"I know. I did. I'd apologize if I thought it meant a thing." Alex stared into him, brows knitted, guilty and miserable and hard as steel. "I just—I kept imagining a future without you and I—" Alex pressed his lips into a thin, bloodless line. Desmond hung onto his every word, didn't dare breathe for fear Alex would stop talking. "Even if you hate me, even if you never want to see me again, it was worth it," he said harshly, dropping any tact and committing to blunt, painful honesty. "A world without you in it—it's worthless."

Desmond let those words sink in. Held them in his mind, hated how they moved him despite how horribly wrong they were.

Slowly, unsure, Desmond reached out. His palm laid flat over Alex's chest, where his heart would be beating if he had need of it.

"...I'm so fucking pissed at you," he said slowly. "This...what you did was wrong, Alex. You're asking me to watch my friends die. My parents. You're making me rely on you, _forever,_ without my consent." Desmond paused, steadying himself with a deep inhale, feeling emotions running high bubbling beneath the skin. But saying this was giving him clarity, enough that he was able to look into Alex's eyes and say with complete honesty, "What you've done to me is unforgivable. But I could never hate you."

Alex's eyes grew wide. He stared for a moment, then shook his head. He finally caved in to his urges and pulled Desmond close to his chest. Desmond held him back, tears pricking his eyes, unable to deny he loved him even now.

"You will," Alex promised. "Give it time." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my angstier ones for sure, lol. But we have to talk about it, right? I mean, Alex is a sociopath, there's no denying it, and even when he's in love, I just see him as the type to make the selfish choice to justify doing something unforgivable. I guess I turned him into Anakin lol. But he would! You know he would! Desmond really is too good for him. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	13. Colors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never, right? Right?! XD
> 
> Yeah, I work 12-hour shifts on the weekends and can you believe it? I actually had to WORK at my JOB! The audacity...

**Universe: Canon-Verse/Fusion  
Status: Pre-Relationship  
Rating: Mature  
Day 13: Colors  
POV: Desmond**

* * *

**Part I: RED**

**"G** ET DOWN!" 

Desmond shoved Alex bodily behind the nearest cover—an overturned filing cabinet that wouldn't take too many more rounds of bullets. 

Only his Eagle Vision had tipped him off in time. When they'd snuck into the office building, Desmond had already felt uneasy. Intel had pointed to it being a front for more Templar bullshit, but the building, just minutes ago full of average workers logging their nine-to-fives, had _completely_ emptied in the time it took for Alex and him to shuffle through the vents to arrive in the server room. The quiet had made Desmond tap into his secondary sight on instinct and that was when he'd seen the dozens of armored men pressed to the walls outside the room, clutching guns, _blazing_ red.

"How the fuck did they know we were coming?" Alex sounded pissed and a spare glance revealed his deep scowl, the clench of his fists as he moved out of Desmond's hold to crouch beside him. The virus leaked out of skin, formed over-long scythes where his arms once were. "You've got a mole," Alex said coldly.

"Yeah, I think I'm getting that hint," Desmond managed to say. The words were quieter than he meant them to be, tinged with pain, and he pressed his hand to his side. Around them, the bullet rain hadn't ceased, tearing through the cheap plaster walls like paper. "But I guess that's not gonna be my problem for much longer."

"What are you—" Alex finally looked down at him and froze, eyes instantly zeroing in on the red creeping wider on Desmond's white hoodie, the harsh press of his blood-slick palms against his waist. _"Fuck."_

Desmond managed a wan smile. "Tell everyone I went out more badass, would ya? I took out l-like fifty before the bullet got me."

"You can tell them _yourself."_ Alex moved to hunch over him, shielding them both with a wall of pulsing red and black matter. Desmond could see the myriad bullets indenting the flesh. "Why _the fuck_ did you cover me?"

"My bad," Desmond muttered wryly. Already, he was feeling sluggish from blood loss. "Next time...next time I'll p-push..." 

Blissful unconsciousness was creeping fast and Desmond had long since learned not to fight its hold—at least until an _incredible_ pain pierced through him, like being shot all over again in the _same_ _exact_ spot.

His eyes fluttered open, his breath coming in gasping pants, to meet Alex's scant inches away, teeth bared with the deadliest snarl he'd ever witnessed on his pale face. Over his wound, the virus pulsed, stemmed the flow of blood from both sides with a pressure so incredible Desmond wished he'd just let him go.

"You. Are not. _DYING."_

Desmond could do nothing more than blink up at him. He'd seen Alex do some crazy things, but he wasn't so sure the virus could bring him back from this. 

It was a little surprising that Alex seemed to care enough to try, though. Up until this moment, he'd figured Alex considered him nothing more than a nuisance, an annoying Assassin babysitter while he temporarily joined forces with their Order to bring down Gentek and Abstergo alike. It was nice to see that months of missions together had fostered something more than a one-sided friendship and Desmond's pathetic crush.

Desmond couldn't tear his eyes away from Alex, the way the cool indifference of his usual expression was wiped away to show something determined and fierce and threaded with an alarm he couldn't hide. He looked incredibly human in that moment.

A stray bullet caught Alex in the side of the head and he whipped his face right back up, scowling blackly like the wound was a stray ball from a careless hand. A hand that was about to be ripped right out of its socket.

Strength draining, Desmond didn't fight the urge to reach out, his slightly swaying fingertips lightly brushing Alex's cheek. Burning eyes flickered down to him, intent and sharp.

"What...what does it mean...when your eyes turn red...?" He managed to ask. It was the first time he'd ever noticed it happening.

Steel crept into Alex's glowing eyes. Deadly promise.

"A lot of people are going to die," he answered. "Slowly. Painfully." The glow grew more intense. More tendrils of matter erupted from his back, waving in the open air like the feelers of some horrific, eldritch creature, blood-thirsty and inescapable. _"Creatively."_

"Oh," Desmond said faintly. His eyes slipped closed against his will. The rush of black crept back up, this time impossible to ignore. "Have fun," he whispered.

He could hear Alex yelling his name, the sound of wood splintered as the door was kicked in, the thunder of too many footsteps.

There was a scream, a war cry, a screech that sounded like nothing someone could witness and still stay sane. 

And then the darkness consumed him and there was nothing.

* * *

**W** hen Desmond resurfaced, it was a sluggish awakening. He'd barely cracked his eyes open when he squeezed them shut, wincing against the harsh sunlight.

There was the sound of a curtain being twitched aside, and then shadow fell over his face. Tentatively, Desmond opened his eyes again, just in time to see Alex seat himself at his bedside, hands loosely clasped to hang between his knees. His eyes were focused on Desmond's face.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," he said with some irony.

Desmond blinked at him. His eyes roamed the unfamiliar room, settled on the intravenous line in his arm up to the bag hanging over his head. It was red.

"Um." Desmond blinked at the blood bag, then eyed Alex. "Where did you get that?"

"Stole it from a hospital."

"...Right. And how do you even know my blood type?" 

Alex made a dismissive gesture. "I memorized your file the day I met you."

"My fi—I have a file?" Desmond shook his head tiredly. "That was a stupid question." He looked askance at Alex. "I guess asking how you _got_ that file would be a stupid question, too, huh?"

"Yup," Alex said, popping the 'p'. He leaned back, crossed his arms.

It wasn't necessarily funny, but Desmond still smiled. 

"Where are we?"

"Next town over. We're safe."

Desmond hummed. His eyes fell to the IV and he touched it lightly, rubbed at the insertion point with his thumb until Alex pushed his hand away. The move made Desmond look up into Alex's eyes.

"I thought I was a goner," he said quietly. Alex met his look. He just hummed in response. "I thought I was _dead,"_ he pressed.

"Guess you didn't count on me."

A wry smile quirked Desmond's lips. "No. Guess I didn't." The mirth faded quickly as he searched Alex's face, tried to _understand._ "I'm surprised you cared, to be honest. Figured you'd be glad to lose the dead weight."

Alex's features tightened. It was the most minute of changes on a face already so stoic, but Desmond caught it because he was watching. 

"You are _not_ dead weight," Alex said softly, serious to a fault. His eyes were laser-focused and unblinking, intent in a way that made Desmond break contact, flustered and embarrassed without fully understanding why.

"...Well. Thanks. Really." Desmond made himself look back up. He smiled. "You saved my life."

Alex shrugged, seeming discomforted himself. "Don't make a habit of it."

Desmond's smile grew wider. "You got it." Alex shot him a look, probably trying to discern if he was being taken seriously or not, but the look prodded his memory and Desmond pointed at him. "That was pretty cool, by the way. The eye thing," he clarified with a wave of his fingers when Alex's brows furrowed. 

"Oh. That." Alex shrugged again, cast his gaze across the room. "You're probably the only person who's seen that and lived to talk about it."

Desmond remembered the ambush, dozens of men and the cacophonous, endless bullet fire. _Creatively,_ Alex had said. 

Even at his most apathetic, Alex could be a ruthless killer; he almost felt bad for them.

"I'm special like that," Desmond bragged.

Alex rolled his eyes. "You're _something."_

"Thank you."

* * *

  
**Part II: GOLD**

**W** ith time, Desmond learned a lot about Alex. Not nearly as much as he wanted of course, but that was to be expected. Even if Alex seemed to prefer him alive than dead, he was secretive and distant by nature. Anything and everything Desmond learned about him came from careful observation and the rare, precious anecdote Alex dropped when the setting was right and they were alone. While Desmond didn't pride himself as some sort of Alex-expert, he thought he might be one of the few people who came as close to that as was possible.

So when Alex got shot and didn't immediately shrug it off, Desmond knew something was terribly, horribly wrong.

Alex grunted in pain, a sound Desmond had _never_ heard before and never wanted to again.

Alex's hand came up, ripped a _syringe_ out of his neck. He lashed out at his attacker, a Blackwatch soldier, like a bothersome fly and sent him _flying_ across the concrete and into the side of a building with a sickening crunch—a sound Desmond was growing more and more accustomed to, although hearing it never got any easier.

Alex threw the syringe down harshly, eyes dark with hatred, and a strange purple liquid splashed across the ground amidst the shards of glass. It shined brightly for a moment before fading to a dull sheen. 

Desmond was behind a dumpster where Alex had shoved him the moment they'd realized they'd been neatly cornered into this filthy alley, bottlenecked by more Blackwatch soldiers than they'd counted on. Despite Alex's one-man mission to personally destroy practically anyone who breathed any air too close to a member of Blackwatch, they continued to crop up like cockroaches. Until the Assassins took care of their Templar-funding, they wouldn't stop either.

It was a problem they dealt with as they went, and while their altercations got hairy at times, they were never anything like _this._

 _"Alex!"_ Desmond's voice was loud and sharp with worry. 

Alex tossed his head like a beast, as if trying to mentally shake something off, but when he took a step towards the armed men, he faltered. He stumbled to one knee and Desmond watched in horror as a bullet ripped through his shoulder and blood arced from the wound in a violent spray. It poured over his jacket and there was no biomass surging to staunch the flow, no eruption of power and arms to bat away the bullets.

Instead, he just stayed there, _bleeding._ Another bullet tore through his stomach and he made an awful, _sickening_ choking noise. He fell back onto the ground and didn't move. The Blackwatch soldiers approached, laser sights covering Alex's slack form like buzzards.

Desmond didn't think, just _moved._

_"ALEX!"_

He burst from cover, sprinting towards Alex. He saw as if in slow-motion the bullets aimed his way, but he only raised his arms, could only focus on getting to Alex, _saving_ him.

A familiar power roiled through him and the urge to be sick came over him—quick and vicious—but he let it ripple through him, _out_ of him, instead of suppressing it like usual and it rushed from his fingertips and into the open air.

A shower of pulsing golden light arched from his skin and filled the alley in a huge, inescapable wave. The men were sent flying, head over heels, but Desmond knew the reprieve wouldn't last long. He was so sick with worry, there hadn't been an _ounce_ of killing intent in the attack.

Without sparing a moment, he skidded to a stop at Alex's side, picked his head up off the alley to rest on his upper thighs. His hands hovered uselessly over Alex's injuries. He didn't know what to do, didn't even know what this _was._

"Alex?!" No answer. "Shit. _Shit._ Alex, please, _please,_ wake up." He slapped the side of Alex's face, praying for some sign of life, trembling all over.

Alex groaned, face screwing up in a grimace of pain and Desmond could have wept from relief, reveling in the sound. Alex was okay. He was _okay._

"Jesus _fuck,_ I hate that," Alex said between gritted teeth. His hand came to his neck, cupped the place where the syringe had plunged deep. "Thought I wouldn't have to go through this shit again."

"Alex, what was that? Why aren't you _healing?!"_

 _"Ugh."_ Alex groaned again, eyelids fluttering. Desmond could see the wounds pulsing strangely, oozing more blood, swelling open and closed as if they wanted to heal but couldn't manage it. "It's a virus. A different virus. Counteracts mine."

That was a _thing?_ Desmond had never felt more unprepared and helpless in his life. "What do I do?"

"I need to get to Dana. She's our best bet." Alex finally peeled his eyes away from his own wounds. He looked up at Desmond, opened his mouth, then paused. His lips parted but no words came out, and he simply _stared._

Confused, Desmond searched him, worried about blood loss. Alex's brows furrowed again, staring at Desmond in a way he never had before.

"...Why are your eyes glowing?" he asked slowly, warily.

Desmond froze. With a cold dread creeping over his skin, he looked down at his arms and was met with a sight he hated more than anything—the same Isu symbols and markings that always laid dormant beneath this skin, now brought into sharp relief by a searing, unnatural light.

"...Fuck." Desmond looked back up at Alex, unable to disguise his panic. "You should run. Can you make it?" 

Alex shifted up, flinched when gunfire broke out only to be halted mid-air when Desmond raised a glowing arm and the bullets froze, caught in the web of a golden net that shivered in the air like a living thing. 

"Desmond, what—" 

"You have to get away from me— _NOW!"_ Already Desmond could feel himself losing control, could feel the power bubbling beneath his skin, aching to get out. "Take cover— _something. Please."_

Alex managed to roll off Desmond, but it became clear immediately that he couldn't make it far. He ended up behind the same dumpster he'd shoved Desmond towards and while it was nowhere near far enough, it was better than nothing. It _had_ to be. For once in his life, Desmond couldn't fuck up.

Seeing Alex slumped against the alley, blood pouring down his chest, made Desmond's already tenuous control fray even further and he ripped his eyes away, focused on the men who wouldn't be leaving this alley.

"Sorry," Desmond muttered. "But you've seen too much. Can't have you reporting back to the templars."

The foreign surge of power poured out of Desmond like an unstoppable wave. All he could do was do his best to guide it, to give the power focus instead of letting it run rampant on anyone in the vicinity. It tried to catch on Alex's mind but he _pulled_ it away, panicked and furious. He concentrated on _their_ minds, on encasing them so fully they couldn't so much as _breathe_ without the thought passing through him first.

Their resistance only made it worse, how they tried to take control of their bodies, the anger and fear and desperate hatred. It created a cocktail of heady emotions that, when coupled with Desmond's intense fear, his worry and shock and stark loneliness, was too overwhelming to ignore.

The yell burst out of Desmond, the power like _fire_ as it scorched through his veins and poured into the poor, helpless minds of the men he held in his sway. 

It was over in an instant. One moment, over a dozen men writhed in his grasp. The next, they all crumpled to the ground, puppets with their strings cut, blood pouring from their mouths, their noses and ears and eyes. Their bodies were already cooling against the pavement.

Desmond collapsed, caught himself on shaking hands and knees. He watched with no little relief as the runes faded beneath his skin—never gone, but at least hidden.

"...Desmond...?"

Icy terror shot through his veins and Desmond's head whipped to Alex. 

Alex, who was staring at him in a rare expression of undisguised shock. Alex, who was _never_ going to look at Desmond the same way again. Alex, who opened his mouth, to say _what,_ Desmond didn't dare guess. 

And he didn't have to, because before he could speak, Alex's eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.

Desmond scrambled over to him, pushed his shaking fingers to Alex's pulse before remembering he didn't have one. But he could still feel the virus coiling beneath the skin, how it sluggishly pressed against the skin of his neck in a feeble attempt to reach him.

 _Thank fuck,_ was Desmond's fervent thought. Alex was alive and he didn't have to explain himself. It was the best-case scenario in this shitty, shitty situation.

It was hard to hoist Alex over his shoulders and into a fireman's carry, but he managed. Whatever they'd injected him with, it seemed to have lessened the biomass because he weighed more like two grown men instead of a hundred. It was a slow, agonizing walk to Dana's apartment, both due to Alex's weight and Desmond's own fatigue. Exerting himself so soon after using his power was a dangerous game, but it was more of a risk to stay out on the streets when they were both so vulnerable.

Sticking to side-streets and avoiding any possible cameras made the journey even longer, but it was paramount they weren't followed. Alex would never forgive him if he put Dana in danger.

Dana answered the door in her normal clothes, ever the night owl despite the late hour, but she took one look at them and turned white as a sheet.

"Oh my god," she said franticly. She quickly ushered Desmond in, locked the door behind them and helped him lay Alex on the couch. "What the _fuck_ happened?!"

Desmond explained their suspicions of a mole from months ago, this latest ambush, the Blackwatch soldiers lying in wait. When he got to the syringe Dana's expression turned hard. A shadow fell over her face as she stared down at Alex.

"This has happened before. It's a parasite, specifically made to target the Blacklight Virus." She rested a hand on Alex's shoulder. There was a bitter twist to her lips that Desmond didn't like. "It...it'll eat him from the inside out, like a cancer."

 _"No."_ The word was out hardly before Dana had finished speaking and she looked up at him with a helpless, almost pitying expression that was worse than anything. "You said this happened before, so there has to be a cure, right? I could get it."

But Dana was already shaking her head. "The only thing that can counteract it is another parasite, one that would have to infect _another_ Blacklight carrier, and then Alex would have to consume the antibodies from _them._ And even if there were still infected around, we don't have that parasite." Dana looked to her computer. "The doctor who helped us went underground to avoid Gentek. By the time I find him, it'll be too late."

Dana's breath caught on the last word and Desmond tore his gaze away from her, gazing blankly down at Alex. Stubborn, sometimes cruel, bull-headed, distant, fiercely intelligent, protective, loyal, possessive, _lonely_ Alex.

"I'm sorry, Desmond," and she even sounded like she meant it, enough that Desmond felt a distant pang of remorse that he was making her console someone over the imminent death of _her_ brother, "But there's nothing we can do."

But that was unacceptable. Desmond wouldn't allow it. 

"You said...it was a parasite, right?" He looked up, met Dana's eyes. "So it's alive."

"...yeah?" Dana agreed uncertainly. Good enough.

He sucked in a slow breath. He'd never tried anything like this, but what was his alternative? Do nothing and let Alex die? No, there was no other choice.

Desmond placed his fingertips lightly over the bare skin of Alex's neck, right where he'd been injected. It was easy enough to muster some intense emotion with the possibility of Alex dying right in front of him, but he tried to keep it under control, keep it _focused._

Distantly, he heard Dana's gasp, but he ignored it. He let the power flow through him once more, felt sweat bead on his forehead from the effort of keeping it at a slow trickle instead of a flood. If he lost his grip for even a single second, Alex's mind would be overwhelmed and destroyed. He _wouldn't_ let that happen.

Desmond honed in on the virus, on thoughts of the parasite, and it was easy enough to distinguish _Alex-the-virus_ from the parasite itself, a twisted thing that was eating cells, poisoning what was left in a spreading sickness that tainted everything it touched. There was no finesse, Desmond had no kind of training with his power, let alone something like _this,_ but he improvised, controlled the flow of power so that it burned out the infection where he touched it. 

So fixated was he on his work, on _only_ destroying the parasite, that he didn't realize he could feel _everything_ until Alex spoke in his head.

_...Desmond?_

**Alex?**

_What...Why are you in my HEAD? How is this happening?_

**Long story. Sorry. Just deal with it a little longer. I'm almost done.**

_Almost done? With what?_

**_Saving you. Now, please, shut up. I need to concentrate._ **

_What the fuck..._

But Alex listened, and whether it was because he was still weak or because he genuinely decided to do so, Desmond wasn't sure. It didn't really matter.

Desmond had no idea how long he spent on this impossible task, trying to save Alex's life. But when he probed one last time and couldn't find any trace of that foreign, oily sickness, he pulled back in layers, slowly, inching, making sure he left everything as intact as he'd found it, unwilling to cause any harm on his way out. The strange connection that had sprung up in his mind pulsed to life with the beginnings of his exit.

_Wait, what's happening? You're fading._

**I'm leaving. I've already been here too long. It's too dangerous.**

_I still want answers. I don't understand what's happening._

**I'm sorry. I'm sorry.**

And then Desmond was alone in his head, ripping his touch from Alex's neck, crumbling into a miserable, shaking pile next to the couch.

"Desmond!" Cool hands alighted on his shoulders, pressed to his burning forehead. "Are you okay? What just happened? Why were you _glowing?!"_

Desmond could only groan in reply, eyes squeezed shut over a sudden bout of nausea. Twice in one night— _definitely_ only for emergencies, _Jesus..._

Movement pulled both of their attention away and they both froze as Alex shifted, as his face twitched and his eyes fluttered open to stare at the ceiling blankly for a moment. He rose slightly off the couch, still weak if his swaying was any indication, but he was already looking better. They could see the wounds on his body closing up.

 _"Alex!"_ Dana crashed into her brother, arms wrapping around him like she never intended to let go. _"Fucking Christ,_ you scared the _shit_ out of me!" 

Alex blinked, nonplussed. His hands hovered awkwardly, like he didn't know what to do with them, but he finally brought them down, gave Dana a tentative pat on the back.

"I'm okay."

Dana gave a wet snort. "Yeah, thanks to Desmond." Dana pulled back to look down at Desmond and that seemed to alert Alex that they weren't alone. He took one look and it felt like Desmond's insides turned to ice.

"What _was_ that?" Dana asked, and the full force of their stares was more than Desmond could bear.

"I'm sorry," he said, the only words he seemed able to say, and Alex's eyes widened in remembrance. 

Afraid of what _else_ Alex was about to remember, Desmond didn't think. He just scrambled to his feet and _tore_ out of that apartment, ignoring the shouts of his name. He skipped the stairs and the elevator. He went out the window at the end of the hall, climbed the fire escape like the devil himself was on his heels, and then there was open-air and rooftops that stretched for miles.

Desmond raced across them like a thing hunted. He didn't look back.

* * *

  
**D** esmond ran through the night until he made it to the New York safehouse. Rebecca and Shaun were there, along with a few others, but any questions as to why he was back so soon died when they took one look at his face. He'd wanted nothing more than to crash and forget the night, but debriefing his mission was distracting in its own way. He talked about the ambush in a blank tone, detailed the flare-up of the Apple beneath his skin, how he'd neutralized every witness to prevent the templars from learning about Desmond's ability. When questions about Alex came up, Desmond told an abridged truth—that he was injured and healing with his sister. He didn't mention his own part, didn't explain that he'd been too chickenshit to risk witnessing Alex's reaction.

It was incredibly late when he was finally dismissed and he waved off Shaun and Rebecca's offers for company. Talking wouldn't assuage the heavy weight at the pit of his stomach, the sight of Alex's wide eyes and the look on his face when he'd seen Desmond covered in strange golden markings, eyes lit up to match.

Desmond staggered into the room he'd been given without turning on the lights. The door shut behind him, plunging him into pitch-darkness, and the lack of visual stimuli after so much was a balm to his frayed nerves.

At least until a voice, low and deep and filled with dark promise, said, "Desmond."

Desmond went stock-still, heart in his _throat._ Because he recognized that voice. He'd know it in his sleep.

Without fully thinking about it, his hand flew back, barely touched the doorknob before he was _grabbed,_ yanked away like a misbehaving child until he felt hands clamp over his upper arms like shackles. He could feel Alex's breath ghost over his face, warm and voice deadly soft in the quiet.

"Let's have a little chat, huh? Just you and me."

Desmond swallowed. "What's there to talk about?" he asked weakly.

The grip tightened. "Oh, I'm sure we'll come up with something."

Alex moved and Desmond was brought along with him, feet just barely brushing the ground. He heard the soft sound of springs as Alex sat on the bed. Desmond, he brought to his knees, held in place by tendrils of the virus, smooth and like iron, keeping his arms pressed to his sides and knees flat to the ground. Desmond could barely twitch without encountering resistance and he sagged in Alex's hold, defeated. He'd seen these same arms rip limbs like plucking blades of grass, flatten cars and pierce solid steel without anything even _approaching_ effort; he wasn't going anywhere.

"In my experience, humans only run when they're guilty." Alex let that linger in the quiet. His fingers curled over Desmond's shoulders. "What are you guilty of, Desmond?"

Desmond swallowed. "A lot of things. I'm an Assassin."

The tendrils tightened in warning, firm enough Desmond gasped quietly. "Let's pretend I'm not a patient person and stop with the games."

"I...I don't know what to say. How much do you remember?"

 _"Everything."_ The confirmation made Desmond wince. "You were _glowing._ You destroyed those men without laying a finger on them." His fingers dug into Desmond's shoulders. "You were _inside my mind._ How is that possible?"

"I—I don't know! Tonight was a lot of firsts for me, too."

_"Explain."_

Desmond hung his head. He'd hoped this would never come to light, but it was clear he'd been kidding himself. It was a miracle he'd managed to keep the secret this long around someone as observant as Alex.

"It's...a long story. Like, a really long story. You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Alex didn't budge. Desmond could feel the heat radiating from his palms, seeping through his clothes and into his skin.

"Try me."

It took _hours._ Alex knew about the Assassins and Templars by necessity, but he didn't know the full scope of their conflict, the millennia of spilled blood and sacrifice. Once he started on the First Civilization, Alex was enthralled. He asked a lot of questions about the Isu and their abilities, how they created their technology and how they could influence humans on a cellular level, and it reminded him that Alex Mercer had once been a geneticist. More than once, he'd had to remind Alex to stay on topic. He barely understood the Isu shit on a good day, let alone teach someone _else_ about it.

"But what does this have to do with you?" Alex eventually asked. Desmond had long lost feeling in his arms and legs, but the one time he'd asked Alex if he could sit like a normal person, Alex had only tightened his grip, clearly not ready to trust Desmond to stay put; Desmond didn't blame him. He wasn't so sure he wouldn't run, even now. "Why do you have these abilities?"

Desmond swallowed. "Well..." He decided on the short version. "I have a high concentration of Isu DNA. More than anyone. I activated an artifact and it...fused with me." If Desmond concentrated, even now he could feel that low thrum of power singing in his veins, just waiting to be released. Most days, he just tried not to think about it. "...I've been like this ever since," he said quietly.

Quiet descended and Desmond didn't interrupt it, let Alex process all of this incredible, impossible information, wondering if he believed even half of it.

"So...you can control people," Alex mused. "Have you used it before tonight? On me?"

Desmond jerked, as much as he was able in Alex's grip.

 _"NO._ God, no, I would never—I _wouldn't—"_

"Would I even know?"

"I—" That drew Desmond up short, stricken. He honestly didn't know. "I wouldn't do that, Alex." He tried in vain to seek Alex's eyes in the darkness. "I _hate_ using it."

"So why'd you use it tonight?"

This conversation wasn't getting any easier and after hours of talking, of this entire _night,_ he felt past exhaustion. He wanted to close his eyes and never open them again.

"I...I _had_ to. I couldn't let you die," he whispered. 

A touch underneath his chin angled his head up just the slightest bit. Alex's voice was so, so close when he next spoke.

"And later? At Dana's?"

Desmond's heart raced, panic suffused his numb limbs. If Alex hadn't been holding him he would have already been gone.

"You...she said that parasite was going to _kill_ you. I had to—I had to _try."_

"I remember feeling you," Alex said slowly, something cautious in his tone. "You were in my head, my _mind."_

Desmond flinched. "I'm sorry." He screwed his eyes shut, wracked with self-loathing.

There was a pause, and then he was tugged forward, enough that he felt Alex's knees on either side of him, felt that warm brush of air on his face.

"Why are you apologizing?"

Desmond heaved a shuddering breath. "Because—I _invaded_ you. I-I wouldn't do that unless I had no other choice, Alex, you _have_ to believe me," Desmond pleaded, desperate for Alex to understand. "I never wanted this power. _Never._ I hate that I have this inside of me, that I can't get it out. I hate that I'm this— _thing_ now." 

The crushing wave of guilt closed his throat. He wanted to apologize more, but he couldn't speak, terrified that if he opened his mouth he might do something unforgivable, like _cry._

"...This is why you ran," Alex said. "You think you did something wrong."

That made Desmond's eyes snap open, even though it was in vain.

"I _did_ do something wrong."

"You saved my life, Desmond."

"That was luck! I've never done _anything_ like that before. I could have killed you faster than that parasite." Desmond shook his head. "I was being selfish."

"Well, I'm glad you're selfish, then."

The words didn't make any sense. "Wh...Aren't you mad at me?"

"Hm." Alex seemed to mull over it. "Nah."

"I lied to you. For _months._ You just learned I have— _mind control powers._ How—You _should_ be mad at me. You should _hate_ me."

"Why? Because you hate yourself?"

Desmond sucked in a sharp breath. He was once again robbed of words. 

Alex's hold shifted, palms going to either side of Desmond's neck. His thumbs kept his head tilted with a touch beneath his jawline.

"Do you think of me as a monster, Desmond?" Alex asked, tone conversational. "A thing that should be locked up, dissected, destroyed?"

"...Of course not."

"Then why would I think that about you?"

"Because—because it's not the same! You're powerful, Alex, but you don't affect people's free will. That's...that's worse than horrible. It's wrong. No one should have that kind of power."

"You don't use it unless you have to, you said so yourself."

"But—"

"All this proves, Desmond, is that you're a better person than me. If I had your power, I wouldn't be wrestling with morality. I would just use it. _Anyone else_ would." 

Desmond just shook his head, denying Alex's words, his forgiveness, this entire _situation._

"You're so damn stubborn," Alex muttered. His thumbs lightly traced his jaw. "When we were connected, I felt things from you. Snatches of thoughts. Impressions."

Desmond tensed slightly. "...Like what?"

"You. Me. Us."

That could mean anything, but the implications made a new fear rise over him. Then Alex's nose nudged his, Desmond felt lips brush over his cheek in a slow, searching nuzzle and he locked up completely.

"Alex—wait—"

"Shut up," Alex said mildly, and then he pressed their lips together.

The responsible thing would have been to pull away. But Desmond was consumed with the rash desire to take what he could while he had it, because he really _was_ selfish. Alex's touch was probing, searching, like he was feeling it out as much as Desmond was, exploring at his leisure while he had Desmond in his grasp. He pulled back slightly and pressed their foreheads together.

"I'm willing to try this if you are," he said. 

Stricken, Desmond bit his lip.

"Alex...I'm... _really_ not worth the effort."

The tendrils of virus around him squeezed once; a warning, an admonition.

"Are you trying to tell me what to do?"

"I'm trying to save you some time," Desmond argued breathlessly. The tendrils loosened, but only slightly. 

"You let me worry about that." He kissed Desmond again, this time quicker but no less thorough. "You worry about convincing me to let you go."

Desmond wanted to argue more, but the promise of Alex's touch was too good to pass up. 

"I...it's hard to kiss back with my hands bound like this."

 _"Mm._ A compelling point. But will you run the moment I let my guard down? I think you still want to."

Desmond did. But he knew there'd be no point. Alex would have him before he could blink.

"I won't. Promise."

The binding hold fell all at once, but before Desmond could collapse, Alex had him, pulled him right up onto his lap and kept him there with a firm grip at the back of his neck.

"I'll hold you to it," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't until I'd written this— _ages_ ago, god—that I realized it applied to so many other prompts??? But this is what spoke to me at the time and I'm sticking with it lol!
> 
> Thanks for reading! And drop a comment if you're liking it so far! (～￣▽￣)～


	14. Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going _waaaaaaaay_ back for this one! Bear with me as I indulge my inner 13-year-old and call back to all of the historical-fantasy fiction I used to read, typically centered around the Celts and Druidic lore. Not that I wrote any of that, but you know. The _influence_ is there lol.

**Universe: Historical Fantasy AU  
Status: Pre-Relationship  
Rating: Mature  
Day 14: Time  
POV: Alex**

* * *

The keep was relatively small, no more than the extravagant fortress of a Lord with too much coin to spend. Alex didn't really understand what the fuss was about; aside from the fortune that must be housed here, the Lord in question was of no consequence, not noble enough to pose a political threat and still not _quite_ rich enough to warrant this level of bloodshed.

But a job was a job, so Alex killed every man he came across, just as he'd been paid to.

Aside from a few servants, there were thankfully few women he came across. They were sent away with a clipped warning that they'd never seen him, and unlike the men, typically women were smarter and knew when to keep their mouths shut. Killing them would be easier, obviously, but he always had the sensation that their blood lingered on his skin longer than the men's. He could be so sentimental at times.

The guards put up a decent fight, but Alex was stronger and faster and had _decades_ of killing experience behind him. As he culled each floor of the keep, he didn't hold out much hope that the Lord would prove to be much more impressive, if he could even hold a sword at all.

And, to his credit, Lord Alex-Didn't-Care met him nobly, sword in a ready stance, eyes steely and lips pursed. His graying hair was sleep crushed and his doublet only half-done, but he would at least meet his death with some dignity. 

The fight was still over pitifully fast. If Lord Dead-Now had invested as much time into his sword fighting as he did flaunting his wealth, maybe he'd have stood a chance.

Well, perhaps not. But he certainly would have lasted longer.

Alex pulled at a corner of the bedspread the Lord had died beside and wiped his sword clean of blood. He surveyed the room with dull interest. Oftentimes, these types kept secret stashes of valuables somewhere in their quarters, jealously hoarding it from even the most passing of glances, their greed only rivaled by their paranoia. A quick sweep didn't reveal much of anything besides a swollen wardrobe and rich tapestries, but Alex had caught him eyeing the door to his washroom more than once.

_What are you hiding, I wonder?_

The private bath held nothing Alex didn't half-expect: an over-large washbasin, expensive marbled floors, an extravagant assortment of scented oils—all objectively valuable to some extent, but nothing someone would be thinking about when they were fighting for their life.

Alex stood in the center of the room and turned in a slow half-circle, eyes appraising as he carefully examined every nook and cranny of the space, and finally, his eyes caught on a set of hooks on the wall, not far from the large basin. They were the only thing that weren't brushed in gold or shined to perfection, a slate-gray stone that looked like it had been carved along with the wall. Alex narrowed his eyes at them, reached out, and when he placed his hand on the middle hook, it lowered stiffly with a mechanical _click._

Across the room, there was a loud creak and then a small square opening slowly slid away from part of the floor. Alex walked over and peered into the tunnel to see thin, steep steps leading deep into the dark.

Despite himself, Alex was intrigued, maybe even a little impressed. It must lead to a secret store, or a secondary exit from the keep, and was of ingenious make. But why hadn't the Lord taken the exit?

With a shrug, Alex grabbed a torch from the adjoining bedroom and plunged into the darkness.

The tunnel was narrow and cold and Alex had to make slow progress to not trip over the uneven cut of the stone steps. He walked for several minutes this way before the tunnel began to broaden, but where he expected to be greeted by a door that led outside, or a secret stash of gold, he came across something he wasn't expecting at all.

As Alex walked further into the room, his torchlight threw into sharp relief the solid iron bars embedded in the ceiling and floor, half a hand-span apart, and the blind-folded man beyond them, secured to the opposite wall by a short chain at his neck like a dog.

Alex stopped and stared, nonplussed. He...hadn't counted on this. 

Curiosity made him move closer, and though he made no effort to keep his steps silent, the other didn't stir. His head hung and his breathing was slow and labored. He wore only a stained pair of breeches and boots and his upper body was dotted with blood and bruises. The strip of linen around his eyes was tight enough Alex could see the redness of his skin around it, and the thick steel collar around his neck was stained with dried, flaking blood.

Alex was no stranger to men who went to great lengths to keep their proclivities a secret, but this seemed to go beyond that. Was it hatred, or a vendetta, that motivated the Lord to keep a prisoner in his private quarters, a secret from his own people? Or was there something else here Alex was missing?

The heavy iron door was locked, of course, but Alex only had to grip it and give a sharp, controlled tug, and then the faint tinkle of splintered metal shards spilling on the cave floor echoed around them. Still, the man didn't so much as twitch and Alex swung the door open.

Alex came to a stop once the man was in reaching distance and he crouched before him, his open palms dangling in the air between his legs.

_What to do, what to do..._

For all the years Alex had walked this world, he'd never been in _quite_ this situation before. His contractor had been very precise: absolutely everyone in the keep was to die, no exceptions. Letting the women go was one thing, but prisoners? It could easily go very bad for him if he let this one go and he talked. Alex prided himself on his reputation as a ruthless, merciless killer. It was why he could demand such exorbitant prices for his services, and it only took one mistake to tarnish it irreparably.

But killing an already beaten, un-armed man...that didn't sit well with him either.

Scowling, Alex slid his fingers beneath the prisoner's chin and angled his limp head up. He had the physique of someone who worked for a living, and his skin was still sun-darkened despite the lack of light this far underground. Perhaps he hadn't been held for long? He had short-cropped, dark hair and a scar on his lips that appeared far older than the ones that dotted the rest of his body.

Alex seized the thick knot at the back of the prisoner's head and tugged off the blindfold.

Several things happened at once. The moment Alex had begun to pull away the binding, a tight, burning grip had seized his wrist, the one still holding the prisoner's head up. Alex only had a split-second to look into furious, _glowing_ gold eyes, and then that harsh grip yanked his arm forward and his head crashed into the other's in a headbutt that made him see stars.

_"Sonuva—"_

The pain was significant, but Alex was no wilting flower, either. The upset to his balance was cleverly done, but he slammed his palm against the wall over the prisoner's head to catch himself before the prisoner could take advantage. 

Glaring, Alex stared down at the not-so-unconscious prisoner and frowned. His eyes were still glowing, and that's when it clicked.

"You're a seer," Alex observed, most of his annoyance fading in the wake of this fascinating revelation. 

It explained his contract, for one. And his kill orders. Wiping out an entire castle was a pretty drastic decision, but now that Alex had all the information _—_ that another jealous Lord had heard of someone with a seer _—_ he saw why he'd been hired.

Which meant his orders still stood.

The prisoner blinked up at Alex, scowl fading along with the glow of his eyes to reveal them to be a startlingly open brown. 

"...You're not the Master," he replied doubtfully. 

Despite himself, Alex snorted. "Is that what he called himself?"

The prisoner's expression took on one of disgust. "Yes. He thinks very highly of himself."

"Well, he's dead."

That earned him a sharp, wary look. "And you're here to kill me now?"

Alex considered the man. "It's what I'm here for," he answered honestly.

The other nodded, something unnervingly expectant in his expression. _Seer._ Right. 

Alex narrowed his eyes. "...You've already Seen me, haven't you?"

The prisoner just looked at him and Alex's scowl deepened; he'd met a few seers in his time, and they were all the same. You'd never get a straight answer out of them, even at swordpoint.

Still, Alex couldn't help asking, "Is that what you were Seeing when I took off your blindfold? Do I kill you?"

Those brown eyes just watched him back steadily. A small smile quirked the scarred lips. 

"What do you think?"

Fucking seers. 

Alex placed his hand on the side of the prisoner's neck. He couldn't help smirking at the way the Seer tensed, the way a tantalizing note of fear threaded through the air. 

It would be so easy, like snapping a twig. And Alex could be generous, he'd make sure it wouldn't even hurt. After the weeks of torture he must have endured, forced to See whatever that Lord had demanded of him, it would probably be a kindness. 

Without any effort what-so-ever, Alex slid his fingers beneath the steel collar and snapped it neatly in half.

The Seer inhaled deeply and Alex wondered how long he'd been aching to do just that without his throat catching on cold metal. He rubbed the raw skin of his neck and looked up at Alex with a sincere, grateful smile.

"Thank you."

"Hmph." Alex stood, pretending not to watch carefully as the other rose much more slowly, swaying as he caught himself on the wall. "Will you at least tell me if you Saw yourself surviving long enough to make it to the nearest settlement? Or did I waste my time here?"

The Seer gave a breathless chuckle. "If you're offering to take me there, I would not object. A Lycan's certainly the best protection I could ask for."

His casual words made Alex's blood turn to ice. He stiffened, fingers curling into claws, and he snarled, loud and inhuman, in wordless warning.

The Seer watched him without an ounce of fear, that small smile still curling his lips. His eyes fell to Alex's mouth, were his fangs had sharpened into vicious points. "How frightening," he observed mildly.

It took significant effort not to go back on his decision not to kill this man. Through gritted teeth, he demanded, _"How much_ did you See?"

"Enough," the Seer answered maddeningly. Alex seriously considered ripping his throat out.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because the Seer's smile widened. His head dipped in a contrition that Alex couldn't tell was contrived or not. "Apologies," he murmured. "But it's truly best if you don't know. The more of the future you're privy to _—_ "

"The more disastrous the potential consequences," Alex finished impatiently. "I know the rules." He took a steadying breath, willed his claws and fangs to recede. "Just _—don't_ push me again."

"Fair enough," the Seer said, and Alex was begrudgingly impressed. Seer or not, being confronted by a monster and still not being afraid? It spoke to an inner strength he couldn't dismiss.

"What's your name?" Alex asked, because it seemed to be the only thing he could ask that would be safe enough.

For the first time, the Seer appeared surprised. His mouth dropped open in mute shock and he stared at Alex for a long moment before he seemed to master himself. It clearly wasn't a question he was used to getting.

"I...My name is Desmond."

"Well, Desmond, I'm Alex Mercer." He held out his hand. "And I'm getting you out of this hellhole, apparently," he said with some irony. The tone made Desmond smile and he slipped his palm into Alex's.

"My hero," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, Seer Desmond is _constantly_ on my mind. Help. Also, for those who may not be Big Fat Nerds like me, a Lycan is just another word for werewolf.


	15. Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday, ya'll! (￣▽￣)ゞ

**Universe: Canon-Verse/Fusion AU  
Status: Established Relationship  
Rating: Mature  
Day 15: Cake  
POV: Desmond**

* * *

"I'm not in trouble, am I?"

"No."

"And you're not about to murder me?"

"No."

"Then...can I take off the blindfold?"

"No."

Desmond groaned, stumbled slightly when he was tugged over a rise in the ground—sidewalk? 

"Assassins don't really like surprises, you know that, right?"

"Quit being a baby."

"Yeah," Desmond muttered, "because being blindfolded and led to a secondary location worked out _so_ _well_ for me the last time."

He swore he heard Alex chuckle under his breath. 

"You'll just have to trust me, then," he simply said, and Desmond squeezed the hand that held his with a resigned sigh.

"I do," he said quietly. If he didn't, he wouldn't have even tolerated the blindfold, let alone the air of mystery Alex seemed set on cultivating. 

Alex didn't say anything back, but he returned the pressure of Desmond's hand; Desmond smiled.

A few more minutes passed in silence as Alex led Desmond through countless back alleys and side-streets, utterly devoid of life now that night had truly settled. What few people Desmond could hear were in the distance or otherwise not the type to say anything when they saw a shady guy in a hood lead another one who was blindfolded. 

The sheer novelty of the situation made Desmond agree to this whole escapade more than anything else. Alex was a lot of things: Methodical. Distant. Powerful. Fiercely loyal to the people he cared about—but _spontaneous_ wasn't one of those things. When Desmond had come back from his latest mission, fighting off a Templar welcoming party in the depths of a cave because he was tracking another Isu artifact, he'd wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep for the next two weeks _straight_.

And then Alex had appeared out of nowhere, _blindfolded_ him, and shoved him right back out the door, barking, "You're coming with me. Now."

So here Desmond was, dead on his feet, being led to who-knew-where by a man who was legally classified as a weapon of mass destruction.

How was this his life?

Alex suddenly came to a stop and Desmond nearly crashed into him. 

"We're here," Alex said, and then he picked Desmond up and Desmond experienced that familiar, gut-twisting inertia of suddenly leaving solid ground, wind snatching at his clothes as Alex scaled the side of whatever building they were at.

Desmond clutched at Alex reflexively, swallowing a yelp. He could practically feel the amusement pouring off Alex in droves and he poked him hard in the chest.

"You do that on purpose," Desmond groused, voice barely audible over the wind, but he wasn't surprised that Alex heard him all the same.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Alex said blandly.

The climb took seconds, as it always did for Alex. He set Desmond down, one arm still at his back to steady him—just in case.

"Okay, we're good."

"I can take this off?" he clarified, already reaching for the knot.

"Yes."

Desmond was ripping it off before Alex had even finished speaking; yes, he trusted Alex, but that didn't make wearing a blindfold any easier.

"Next time, just knock me out." Desmond smiled lightly, but he was only half-joking.

Alex's cool eyes were bright in the moonlight, lips betraying him with a slight curl of amusement.

"Are all assassins so melodramatic?"

Desmond affected a posh demeanor, turning his nose up. "Only the best ones."

Alex shook his head. He took a half-step away, body angled to the side. 

"And after all the trouble I went to," he said, gesturing towards the roof with a tilt of his head.

"What tr—" Desmond turned his head and the words dried up in his throat, robbed by true, honest surprise.

Where he expected to see an open, moonlit night and a familiar New York skyline, his attention was arrested to his more immediate surroundings—mainly the display just a few feet from him at the center of the skyscraper.

A small folding table and two chairs waited. A black tablecloth was fluttering idly in the slight breeze but the large white candles set atop it seemed to be heavy enough to keep it from flying away, although the occasional breeze threatened to extinguish their small flames. Glasses sat on the table as well, next to a large bottle of champagne. Something sat dead center, covered by a silver lid.

Speechless, Desmond tore his eyes away from— _whatever_ that was, to look at Alex. No matter how he tried to rationalize it, this...really seemed like a date. Like Alex was surprising him with a romantic _dinner_ or some shit. Which wasn't to say that Alex was _incapable_ of romantic gestures, but this didn't seem very in-character for him.

Alex just met Desmond's gaze evenly. He nodded towards the scene he'd clearly set up, encouraging Desmond to investigate up close. After a hesitant moment, Desmond did just that, feeling a strange sort of wariness mixed with excitement overtaking him.

For a moment, he just took in the scene, a small part of his mind unwilling to accept the implications of Alex doing this. He reached out to the covered dish, plucked off a silver-knobbed lid to reveal—

A cake. It was small and plain, frosted in white, without anything else to adorn it other than some sprinkles. Desmond stared at it.

"It's for you," Alex suddenly spoke up from behind him. Desmond swiveled to face him and saw how discomfort had settled over Alex as snugly as his jacket. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tense as he rocked from foot to foot, oddly restless. He didn't meet Desmond's eyes. "All of it."

Desmond looked from the table to Alex again.

"...Why?" he eventually managed and Alex frowned, finally looked Desmond in the eye.

"It's your birthday," he explained simply, and Desmond froze, somehow even more blindsided by _that_ than anything else.

He retreated within, racking his brain, but he realized that _yes_ , Alex was right. It was March, it was definitely the right day.

"I...forgot," Desmond uttered lamely. Birthdays weren't really a thing on the Farm and when he'd left, he'd barely remembered the date other than as a reminder that he'd managed to survive another year.

Alex nodded. "I figured." He walked past Desmond, pulled out one chair before sitting in the other, placed close together. "Sit."

Desmond, still reeling from the realization, did as he said without protest.

"How...how did you know?"

Alex shrugged, rested his forearms on the table. "Saw it on your file." He popped open the champagne with an easy twist, tossed the cork carelessly away and filled the two glasses with a generous amount of wine. He nudged one Desmond's way. 

"You hacked us?" The question came out exasperated.

"I hack everyone," Alex said, tone almost conciliatory. 

Desmond took the offered glass, glanced down into it only to see his own face reflected back at him in the dark liquid—confused and unsure. A little happy.

"I...I don't know what to say," he finally murmured after a moment. He looked at the cake, the wine and candles and the gorgeous view of neon-lit buildings and a cloudless moonlit night. Alex had done this for him. He wanted to ask why, but that seemed ungrateful. "Just— _thank you,_ Alex. You didn't have to do this."

"I know," Alex said. He didn't touch his wine. He nudged the cake closer to Desmond, produced a fork seemingly from nowhere and held it out. "I'm not much of a singer, though, so no birthday song."

Desmond huffed a laugh and plucked the fork from his outstretched fingers. "It's really fine." He'd probably die of embarrassment if Alex tried.

It felt weird to just stab his fork into a cake instead of cutting a slice, but it was small and Alex clearly hadn't brought plates. He sunk the fork into the white frosting and couldn't stop the delighted smile that spread across his face.

"It's chocolate!" he exclaimed, like Alex didn't _know._ A small smile twitched to life on Alex's lips.

"Yeah. Thought you might like that."

"I can't even remember the last time I _had_ chocolate." Desmond took one bite and his eyes closed in bliss. "I love you," he sighed.

"Are you talking to the cake, or me?"

"Mm," Desmond hummed, shoving another bite into his mouth. "Both?" he wondered around a mouthful. "Both."

Alex stretched out on the table, propped his head on a fist as he watched Desmond eat. That small, satisfied smile still curved his lips.

"I guess I'll take what I can get."

The cake was amazing. Rich and decadent, and there were even chunks of fudge inside of it, a discovery that nearly made Desmond tear up, it was so good. The frosting was whipped, light and sweet without being overly so and Desmond was seriously considering marrying a cake the longer he ate. 

He'd only been eating for a few minutes, however, when he realized Alex wasn't even attempting to have some. When he glanced up, Alex was just watching him with half-lidded eyes, expression as satisfied as if he _had_ been eating.

The bite in Desmond's mouth suddenly felt harder to swallow. His face was warm.

"You don't want some?" he asked quietly. He couldn't raise his voice much louder, suddenly feeling pinned beneath the scrutiny.

"I'm good." 

"Well...it feels weird being the only one eating." Desmond speared another piece of cake and held it out. "Come on, one bite? It's really good."

Alex considered him, those blue eyes cool as ever as they darted between the cake and Desmond's face. His fingers came around Desmond's wrist, burning hot enough that Desmond almost flinched. He always forgot how hot Alex ran until he touched him. 

Alex guided the cake into his mouth, touch like fire. His eyes never left Desmond's. Desmond was _definitely_ blushing.

"It's good," Alex finally agreed. He didn't let go.

"You...um, do you want some more?"

Alex smiled. "I have a better idea."

He took the fork and hooked a leg around Desmond's chair. He pulled him closer, until Desmond was practically in his lap, and set a palm on Desmond's thigh. He cut another piece of cake with the side of the fork and offered it up.

"Say _'ah',"_ he smirked.

 _"Oh my god,"_ Desmond muttered, flushed, but he still opened his mouth obligingly. Alex slid the cake in and Desmond could only handle a single second of those molten blue eyes on him before he had to look away.

Alex's thumb stroked across the fabric of his pants. "Good?"

Desmond's face was burning. Words suddenly dried up in his throat, he merely nodded, eye _anywhere_ but Alex.

Alex leaned closer, a shark chasing blood in the water. "You getting shy on me, Miles?"

Desmond nervously tapped his foot. "...Maybe," he muttered. "Can you blame me? This is a lot."

Alex's chuckle rolled over him, warm and low and delicious. "Come here," he murmured, and Desmond turned his head, met his lips for a heady, chocolate-tinged kiss.

It always flustered him, the way Alex kissed him. Desmond was the one who would peck him on the cheek or the mouth if he was too busy for anything more, the one who pressed their smiles together when they could linger a little longer. He'd learned early on to keep them short if he had somewhere he had to be, because Alex only kissed one way: singularly focused, with the express determination to make Desmond cum in his damn pants.

It was embarrassing, and unfairly hot, the way Alex could make him feel, just from a kiss. He seemed to savor every noise Desmond made, every twitch and every hitch of breath he coaxed from him. He wasn't surprised to feel something warm and thin wrap around his waist with an affectionate squeeze, to find himself firmly dragged over to straddle Alex's lap. Being with Alex meant you had to be prepared to be grabbed when you least expected it, even when you could feel his hands in completely different places. 

He went with the motion, let Alex position him where he wanted. Once their chests were pressed tight, Desmond claimed those lips right back, shivered when Alex's hands settled low on his hips and squeezed in obvious possession.

Desmond broke the kiss, panting lightly as he stroked Alex's cheek and smiled down at his wonderful, sexy, surprisingly thoughtful boyfriend.

"Is that a present in your pocket?" Desmond asked, voice a quiet, sultry purr. He brushed their lips together. "Or are you just happy to see me?"

Alex stared up at him, face like stone. 

"That was fucking awful, Desmond," he said flatly.

Desmond cracked up, head thrown back as he laughed.

"Your _face!"_ Desmond wrapped one of his own arms around his stomach as he shook with mirth. One of Alex's thinner, pulsing hot arms kept him from falling right off Alex's lap and onto the unforgiving concrete. "Oh, _god."_ He thought he might actually die from laughter. He knew he'd just killed the mood, but _still._ "It was so worth it."

Alex sighed long-sufferingly and it just made Desmond laugh all over again. There was something about exasperating stoic, no-nonsense, Mr. _I hunt, I kill, I consume_ Alex Mercer that was just _so_ funny.

Sometimes people asked Desmond what he saw in Alex, why he'd even _want_ to be with someone with that kind of baggage. No one ever realized they should be asking _Alex_ that, no one ever bothered giving him a fair warning; he had to deal with _Desmond._

"You done?" Alex's voice completely stripped of emotion, the way he got when he was completely done with Desmond's shit.

Desmond's laughter had died down to chuckles by that point and he nodded, pressed a chaste, affectionate kiss of Alex's lips.

"Yep." A stray chuckle escaped him, just remembering. "Sorry, babe."

"Hmph." Alex could act aloof as he wanted, Desmond could tell he was appeased by the kiss, brief as it had been. "You're a mess, you know that?"

"Oh, yeah," Desmond agreed readily. He swayed forward, leaning indulgently into Alex, happy to feel the way Alex's arms moved to steady him, immediately and thoughtlessly. "But I'm _your_ mess."

Alex's eyes narrowed. "What do I get out of this deal?"

Desmond considered that question thoughtfully. "Sex?"

Alex's eyes brightened with interest, just as Desmond knew they would. _Pervert._

"The sex _is_ pretty good," he agreed, rubbing warm circles at Desmond's lower back.

Desmond affected an offended air. _"Pretty_ good?"

Alex smirked. "Okay, very good."

"Uh, _no!_ It's _amazing!_ Perfect! Earth-shattering! How dare you!"

Alex gave a full-blown smile then and Desmond was hard put to maintain his pout. He was proud every time he managed to coax one from Alex and this time was no exception, the way it warmed him to see such lightheartedness on Alex's face.

"You're right. I beg your forgiveness."

Desmond looked askance, unimpressed. "You just insulted the very foundation of our relationship. I'm not in a very forgiving mood."

"I see." Alex's grip shifted and a broad, hot palm slipped beneath Desmond's shirt. The cool night air kissed his skin where Alex coaxed it up. His dark eyes held a familiar desire when Desmond looked into them. "Perhaps there's something I can do to make it up to you?" he suggested.

Excitement made Desmond drop all pretense and he grinned, so, _so_ glad it was his birthday.

"Hell yeah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was almost a sex-chapter, but then Desmond ruined it. XD


	16. Ceremony (1/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this one's weird guys. XD 
> 
> I really don't know what else to say besides that! This is part 1, so I hope you guys like it! But if not, I get it lol!

**Universe: Historical Fantasy  
Status: Pre-Relationship  
Rating: Mature  
Day 16: Ceremony  
POV: Desmond**

* * *

# Part I

* * *

The temple was cold and desolate. Half-crumpled stone pillars stretched high, coated in dust thick enough he could scrape it into piles, and cobwebs spread across every visible corner and tore reluctantly, massive and sticky, as Desmond pushed through them, torch held aloft as he plunged ever deeper.

It was the absolute last place he wanted to be. Long abandoned, the unsettling atmosphere was bad enough, but worse was the creeping feeling of disturbing a place of rest, like he was walking across a graveyard. Something resonated deep beneath the stone, stirring with his every footfall, dark and sinister and inescapable.

Desmond kept walking.

He had very little on him. The clothes on his back; a dagger; a heavy, ancient book; some candles and chalk. All of them bounced in his pack as he walked, an ever-present reminder of the work he had yet to do—as if he could ever forget. 

The temperature grew more extreme as he plunged down further into the darkness. His breath began to fog and he worried for the torch as the flame grew weaker. It should have burned steadily no matter the cold but Desmond could sense the power in the air, ancient and strong; the magic here was _incredibly_ dense and made to endure. He could feel how it grew unpleasant as it danced across his skin, urging him away, turned his insides to ice and made a deep, visceral dread build nearly to the point of overwhelming. 

_Stay away,_ the very air seemed to hiss.

Desmond didn't stop. He _couldn't._

The walk was bleak and lonely. Desmond pushed those feelings from his mind, focused on the people he was doing this _for._ His friends, weary from the fight, given a chance at true freedom if he succeeded. His parents, able to live out in the open, no longer condemned to a life of flight and hiding in the shadows. The _world,_ free from a tyranny it had never had a chance to fight because their enemy was too insidious to show itself until it was too late. 

The reminder made him straighten his spine, made determination urge him ever-forward. He was doing the right thing.

At long last, he stood before a massive set of stone doors. Thick black lacquer coated it in large swathes, radiating an intense, sinister energy. The light of his torch made the door shine, sleek and dangerous. 

Desmond placed a hand on one of the rough, gnarled growths. It was smooth and dry but ice-cold. Carefully, he set his torch on the ground so that it wouldn't extinguish and retrieved his dagger from his pouch.

One sure slice across his palm had hot blood steaming in the frigid air. Desmond reached out, murmured a word under his breath, and swept his palm across the surface of the door in a wide arch of red.

His blood absorbed into the black, like a creature drinking deep. There was a heavy crack that echoed loud enough to make his ears ache, and then the massive doors slowly swung inwards, revealing themselves to be the thickness of a horse—made to keep something contained. A soft red light emanated from the crack.

Nervously, Desmond licked his dry lips. He didn't bother binding his injury. He only picked up his torch and pushed a heavy door open enough to squeeze through. The moment he was through, it slammed shut.

Surprise and fear kept Desmond's feet rooted to the ground. What he'd expected was a tomb. Darkness. Dust. Instead, he saw _life._

Or, at least, there was an _energy_. Where the rest of the temple had appeared man-made from huge chunks of cut stone, this huge, cavernous room seemed hollowed out from the very heart of a mountain. The ceiling was spiked with dripping stalactites and there must have been some small opening to the world above, because shafts of moonlight pierced the gloom to illuminate the space and the small pool of tepid cave water that had collected over centuries. The walls all curved inwards, the hardened, hollowed-out dirt of natural earth. And at his feet, the ground was home to a strange mist, a glowing bright red that twisted and curled around the room like it was alive. Even when Desmond walked through it, it never rose higher off the ground or dissipated. It stayed there, a few inches thick on the ground, as if it held real weight. Desmond couldn't feel it at all as it swirled around his ankles but it still unnerved him deeply.

In the center of it all was a large crystal, sunk deep into the earth and clear. It was easily the size of a small _building_ and was covered in chains that wrapped around it countless times, the ends of which were bolted all around—on the ceiling, in the dirt, and deep into the cave walls themselves. Desmond crept closer, transfixed, and saw movement deep within the massive crystal, just barely glimpsed between the links of chains. Tentatively, Desmond brushed his finger across the crystal and bit back a yelp when the barest brush _singed_ his finger with something hot and painful. It felt like the crystal was trying to _pull_ him in, to drain him, and when he ripped his finger away, it came away bleeding.

Desmond stared as the little bit of blood he'd left on the surface of the crystal was absorbed and disappeared, just like the door but much, _much_ faster. If the door was like a creature drinking deep, then this was a far more ravenous beast, _starving._

It was nothing like he'd expected, but there was no doubt this was what he'd been seeking. Anything that craved blood like this...

Desmond took a deep breath and steeled himself. He still had work to do. 

He emptied his pack on the glowing cave floor. He left his torch on the ground so his hands were free and opened the ancient tome he'd carried all this way; he began reading aloud, just under his breath, carefully following the instructions inside. 

He lit his candles first, let the wax drip as he circled the crystal to form a messy perimeter. Nothing happened until he walked it again, this time squeezing his hand into a fist so his blood would drip over the wax. The moment he completed this second, bloody circuit, the glowing red miasma lurched away from the area, forcefully expelled. The crystal shifted an instant later, just a slight movement, but it sounded ancient, like the creak of something old and malevolent finally rousing, and the chains snapped with an unnerving sound, taut. 

The sight made Desmond's heart race, but he couldn't stop. He ignored the dull throb of pain as his palm continued to bleed and he held the dripping appendage away from himself as he kept going. 

He followed the instructions perfectly, the fruits of his intense months of study finally paying off. It helped that he could use his second sight to better understand the old texts, something that marked him as one of the few people left in the world who could truly understand it. It explained why he'd managed to find this place at all when it was so heavily glamoured to conceal it from the naked eye.

He marked the runes just inside the circle carefully, wary of even the slightest smudge or mistake. He couldn't allow a single flaw, not when the world counted on it.

From the moment he'd started, a harsh, expectant energy had begun to pulse, heavy and electric. When he finished his inscriptions and began to speak the words of power, it grew much worse, a physical weight on his skin as his heart raced and exhausted sweat broke out on his skin. He held up his arms, palm facing the crystal, blood dripping down his arm. Mirrored runes crawled up his arm in bright gold until they overtook his body completely. When he felt them burning the skin of his face, he took up the dagger again, sliced his opposite palm, and squeezed his hands so the blood poured to his feet.

It didn't stay there. As if magnetized, the blood dispersed around the circle, overtaking the chalk drawings to re-inscribe the markings with his life force. His hands shook from the effort and pain but he didn't stop until each rune was fully overtaken. His arms fell like leaden weights at his side and he gratefully sank to his knees. His hands, pressed into the dirt floor, continued to bleed and Desmond held them there, watched as the blood spilled from his palms and streaked towards the crystal.

The chains created a horrible, intolerable whine as the crystal began to vibrate and they struggled to keep it contained. Desmond didn't move, just kept adding more and more blood to the ritual, panting for breath and vision swimming as the blood loss began to take its toll.

It happened quickly after that. A brilliant red light emanated from the crystal and it pulsed in time with his breath, absorbed his blood in greedy increments like a heartbeat. Around the crystal, the chains grew red-hot. Steam poured from it, the links began to melt, and then the crystal _shattered._

Desmond shielded his face, felt small shards slice his arms and legs and torso as they shot past him. He felt like he was drenched in blood.

A ringing silence followed, broken only by his uneven panting and the labored, thunderous beating of his heart. He lowered his arms but froze when he heard the crunch of footsteps, approaching on a bed of crystal shards.

A touch alighted on his chin, burning hot and foreign. It raised his face and Desmond's entire being _quailed_ _._

There were no eyes, but Desmond knew he was being watched intently, every hair follicle and pore carefully studied and memorized. Its entire _existence_ was hard to understand, an otherworldly black and silver. Every surface of its strange body looked wickedly-sharp, though parts of it rose in rippling tendrils that twisted in the open air, the only pliant part of its body Desmond could see; the rest was a hard exoskeleton made of impossible ridges and whorls. The smooth face held symmetrical cracks where Desmond could spot something black and red beneath that pulsed rhythmically.

 _So this is a demon._ Desmond desperately wanted to close his eyes. He didn't _dare_ look away.

The thing crouched, looming over him, and tilted its head ever so slightly—curious or hungry, Desmond wasn't sure. 

**"You will have your bargain, little human,"** it said, and its voice was something terrible, a thousand beings blended together. Its own, or its victims? **"Where is the sacrifice?"**

Shaking, Desmond grasped the dagger for the final time. He pulled slightly out of the demon's grasp and looked down at his own arm. With a silent breath to steady his hand, he sliced a smooth, deep line up from wrist to elbow. Blood poured over his arm like a thick waterfall. After what he'd already shed, the dizziness hit him almost immediately and he swayed where he sat, going colder even as his blood steamed in the frigid air.

A sudden, fierce grip on his arm made him wince and bite back a cry of pain. The demon squeezed Desmond's arm, as if trying to force the blood out faster and it was sickly fascinating to watch it absorb into the creature, to see that strange arm glow brighter as it stole Desmond's life.

 **"You would sacrifice yourself?"** This clearly surprised the demon. **"Now that _is_ interesting. And for what? What drove you to such a forbidden place to seek the help of a demon?"**

Desmond was terrified, but his determination outweighed it. 

"I...we don't have the strength to fight, anymore. They're wiping us out."

**"Who?"**

Desmond licked his dry lips and felt a twinge of guilt. Even if they'd rained so much death and suffering on him and his people, he still felt the burden of so many lives being potentially ended by his actions. But what choice did he have? Allow the world to stay in their sway and for those who fought for freedom to be systematically purged? 

"They wear the sign of the cross. Templars," Desmond confessed. He looked into the demon's face, unsure if his sincerity would reach it but willing to try anyway. "They're too strong and their magic—they've found ancient artifacts, used them to control the people's minds and they kill _anyone_ who doesn't fit into their plans. My family and friends are hunted by them day in and day out. We try to fight back, but so many of us have been killed..."

 **"Then I will destroy them,"** the demon said simply, and the absoluteness of his tone made Desmond shudder. 

It felt wrong to do this, to unleash this evil on the world, but the alternative was worse. At least this way, there was still a _chance._ They could still fight. If the Templars had their way, the will to resist—any will _at all_ —would be erased.

"Thank you," Desmond said, bowing his head. He wanted to beg, to plead the demon keep it's word and didn't let the bloodlust drive him to make meals of Desmond's friends and family, but it wasn't his place. He'd committed to this awful, terrible thing. Whatever came next, the blame would be laid squarely at his feet.

The creature's hand came around Desmond's throat. He nudged Desmond's head up, long, hot fingers almost gentle, but the touch still made his pulse quicken in fear. 

**"He thanks me,"** the demon mused. One large, taloned thumb nudged his head up further at an angle that was painful and between the grip at his neck and at his bleeding arm, Desmond was firmly caught. But he'd delivered himself into the hands of this thing, had to accept death however it chose to grant it. The finger at his chin slowly passed over his skin, a pantomime of a caress that was betrayed by how possessive it was; savoring before the plunge into a delicious meal. **"Name the terms of the contract."**

Desmond blinked, vision beginning to spin as his life was drained. 

"Contract...?" he echoed, his voice a confused murmur. 

The demon tightened its grip around his neck; a warning of impatience. **_"Name them."_**

Heart racing in renewed terror, Desmond scrambled to say _something._ Perhaps he'd missed this when he'd read over the ancient texts? He was by no means an expert on the First Civilization's language.

Desmond swallowed. "Destroy the Templars," he said, quiet, but firm. These words mattered more than anything else, more than even his _life._ He had to be _absolutely_ clear. "Free the world from their control. Give humanity back their independence."

There was no mouth for it to smile with, but when the demon spoke, his voice dripped with satisfaction. **"I accept."**

What happened next, Desmond wasn't prepared for. The grip around his neck became like a vice. Reflexively, he gasped for air, but only choked as the pain all over his body was completely dwarfed by the _searing_ touch at his neck—the touch of smoldering iron would have felt kinder.

His vision washed pure white as he screamed with no sound—trapped in an endless oblivion as he was held fast, unable to escape the white-hot agony of being _burned alive—_

And just as fast, it was over. The clamp around his neck was gone and Desmond heaved a great, shuddering gasp for air as his body dropped—a puppet with its strings cut.

But instead of a painful meeting with the hard, cold cave cloor, Desmond was caught by a steady arm around his chest. 

Still reeling from the pain and finding himself alive for some _unfathomable_ reason, Desmond looked up—and met the eyes of a stranger. 

The demon was gone, and in its place stood a man. He was of a height with Desmond, with black hair, light blue eyes, and pale skin. He was dressed in black from head to toe—boots, breeches, tunic and cloak, and would have passed for a normal person if not for the impossibly perfect, fine make of his clothes and the hard, cool look of his eyes. His smile was cruel.

Desmond knew what he was seeing, yet he didn't understand. "What... _what is this?"_

As he spoke, a phantom pain at his neck made him flinch and he brushed his fingers against the skin there. The flesh felt tender, but as the seconds passed, it was already fading—as well as the aches of the rest of his body. When he glanced down, his clothes were still threadbare and blood-stained, but his injuries were _gone,_ his skin smooth and unblemished, as if he'd never known the touch of a knife. Beneath his disbelieving eyes, he held out his hands, searching fruitlessly for the injuries he'd inflicted on himself, but they were whole and hale.

It unsettled Desmond fiercely. None of this was what he'd prepared for.

The demon in human skin took Desmond's neck in his grip once more. His hand was smaller this time, didn't encompass Desmond's neck completely, but it still held that same impossible strength, unbreakable and possessive. At the touch, his neck felt warm, an echo of the searing burn he'd felt just moments earlier and his heart skipped a beat in remembered fear. The demon's eyes were fixated on where he held Desmond, where his thumb traced over the skin.

"The contract is made," he said, voice low and rough. The pitiless, guttural tone of before was gone, but there was still something off about it, something that distanced him subtly from humanity. "As long as you carry my mark, our contract will hold."

Desmond's eyes widened. He was _branded?_

"Why..." Desmond forced himself to hold fast when the demon's eyes darted up to meet his. "Why am I still alive? I...I didn't read anything about _contracts."_

The smile widened imperceptibly, varnished completely of any comfort, only satisfied, almost _mocking._

"Curiosity, I suppose," the demon answered. _"Never_ has a human attempted self-sacrifice to summon me. It would be a shame to spill your blood just yet." The eyes fell again, to the mysterious mark he'd left on Desmond's skin, a warm ring he felt around his neck as sure as a collar. "You should be happy. A demon's strength is heightened incredibly with a contract. I will be so _useful_ to you."

Desmond didn't want a contract. He'd come here to _die._

"And when the contract is fulfilled?"

The smile became a smirk. The touch on his neck—Desmond couldn't recall being held, being watched, with such reverence in his _life._

"I will have you _completely._ Mind, body, soul," the demon said with relish. His eyes washed completely black as an expression of deep hunger overtook his face. "Your blood will taste all the sweeter for it."

Desmond's insides washed cold, but quick on its heels was acceptance; so he _would_ die after all. Just not when he expected to.

"But you _will_ help me?" he asked.

The black bled away and the demon's eyes were once again normal—as normal as an expression of cold, unfeeling apathy could be.

"The contract is absolute. I will serve you until our terms are met." He finally dropped his hand from Desmond's neck and stood. He crossed an arm over his chest, placed his palm above his heart, and bent at the waist. A sardonic smile still rested on his lips. "What is your first order?"

Desmond stared. Having a creature of such power at his command—it didn't sit right with him _at all._ But what choice did he have? Allow the Templars to continue their war against free will?

Despite being healed, Desmond felt shaky on his legs as he rose as well and looked down at the demon's bowed head. Behind him, the crystal laid shattered across the floor, a sea of glittering shards across the entire room. The chains laid discarded, hung limply from the roof like corpses; this place made his skin crawl.

"Take me away from here," Desmond said. As he spoke, he felt the power of his words, the command as it passed the air and washed over the demon, who shuddered minutely in what seemed to be pleasure.

The demon straightened from his bow and Desmond caught a flash of red in his eyes.

"As you wish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex's demon form is 1000% a reference to his [Armor](https://prototype.fandom.com/wiki/Armor?file=Concept-Armor-1-.png) in-game. Imagine having a conversation with _that_ lololol.
> 
> Part 2 coming next week! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


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